


In This Home On Ice

by aldiara, lilithilien



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Angst, Chaptered, Freeform, M/M, Multi, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 81,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithilien/pseuds/lilithilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emergency canon repair: Deniz is a rentboy and Roman is most displeased. (Picks up after ep 565, AU from there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Face-Off

**Author's Note:**

> Unfinished WIP.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm curious: is a professional blow job really that much better than what I used to get for free?"

_Face-Off: The dropping of the puck to start the game, or to resume the game after a stoppage in play."_

  
“By the way,” Mike says, after a dressing-down over a rough check that Roman really doesn’t need or appreciate, “your ex has a new job.”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less what clothing line Deniz is pimping.”

“Oh, it’s not clothing he’s pimping, it’s himself.” Mike’s sneer is laced with delight. “An escort, I think is what they’re calling it. I heard Marian pulled him out of some john’s bed just the other day.”

And Roman knows how rumours fly through the Centre, faster than a hockey puck spins across the ice, so he swallows down the bile in the back of his throat and gets back to his training. But endless laps and that welcome burn inching its way up his calves don’t chase it completely away; neither does practising spins until his centre of gravity rebels and he’s so dazed he can hardly tell which end is up. It’d taken weeks for the sting of their last encounter to fade, weeks of telling himself that the spite in Deniz’s words hadn’t felt like raw alcohol dousing that still open gash from the championships. Now it’s back, despite some calmer voice in his head telling him that there’s no reason he should care what Deniz does these days.

The applause at that night’s performance dulls his bitterness, just like it always does. Roman has always craved being watched, an urge born of being the only child of too-busy parents. On the ice he gives in to that urge, assured for once that he’s worthy of such attention. His choreographed leaps might not be as daring as he’d attempt in competition, his jumps not nearly as bold, but the audience doesn’t seem to mind. They’re swayed by the spectacle of these glittering figures flitting across the ice. Sparkling and brilliant, Roman can almost bring himself to believe in this perfect world where the only sharp edges are on his skate’s blade.

But the bitter spectre of Deniz rises again that night, after he’s left Jenny to the latest scheme that he has no interest in, after he tries to drown it in some bar in whatever town they’re in now, after he’s stumbled back to his hotel and stared at his mobile like it’s going to shout out the truth. It stays mute, though; there’s nobody who’d ring him these days, nobody who’d think this was anything more than he’d deserved.

They’re going back to Essen in just a few days. The truth will come out soon enough.

  
Roman feels his nerves ratchet up to high alert as soon as he steps through the front door of the Centre. It’s his Deniz-sense tingling, like Spidey-sense but so much less useful. All it seems to do is set him on edge, when he’s already there just from being back in Essen. He tries to remember when this was a place where he could relax, where he felt at home. It seems like an awfully long time ago.

His senses go into overdrive when he enters the changing room. There’s someone in the shower, and since the Fates hate him, Roman knows it must be Deniz. A cough from behind the curtain confirms it; Deniz hates the feeling of hot water streaming into his mouth, and Roman hates that this petty detail about his former lover is forever lodged in his head. He quickly changes into his sweats, hoping he can escape to the weight room before Deniz finishes, but things never do go the way he hopes. The water shuts off and a hand reaches out to grasp blindly for the red towel on the hook. In seconds Deniz is standing before him, dripping onto the tile, looking about as young and innocent as he did the very first time Roman laid eyes on him. There’s not even a glimmer of the loathing he’d spit that day at the fry stand. Now there are parting lips that could almost be a smile and shining dark eyes, puppy dog eager, that could promise all the things that Roman’s given up wanting. There are broad shoulders that invite him to climb up them, and a towel tied loosely enough to pull apart with just a finger, and in between is skin flushed all rosy from steam, covered in clinging drops of water that shimmer like sequins. Roman swallows, his mouth watering at the thought of licking them off, one by one, even if they would slice his tongue. _Want._ The feeling rises in him, that unshakable tidal wave of emotion that for a moment keeps him from looking away. Then his bile bubbles up again, bitterness slicing through his need like a hot knife.

“Don’t worry. This Ice Queen isn’t going to touch you. I hear that comes at a price these days.”

~~~~~

Absurdly, the first thing Deniz feels when he steps out of the shower and sees Roman sitting there, pulling on his training shoes, is pleasure, surprised and genuine and rather unexpected. It’s been weeks, and the memory of their angry words at the fry stand, which at first boiled hotly in his mind, soon dropped down to a simmer and eventually evaporated, pushed aside by more immediate concerns.

Trust Roman to stoke it back into roaring resentment at a second’s notice.

Deniz feels heat rising to his cheeks and wishes, not for the first time, that he had inherited some Turkish forebear’s swarthy complexion, not his mother’s pale skin that shows every blush much too clearly, broadcasting his embarrassment to the world.

He tries to cover it up with a sneer as he pulls the towel more securely around his hips. “Nice to see you too. I see you’ve been keeping tabs on me. Stereotype much, gossip girl?”

Roman’s eyes narrow. He looks good, despite a hint of tired shadows under his eyes. Clean-shaven, new haircut, new tank top too, from the looks of it – green, not his best colour, but it does show off the smooth curve of his shoulders, the definition of his upper arms, and… _what the fuck, Öztürk?_ Angrily, Deniz jerks his eyes back to Roman’s face, wondering when the hell he’s going to stop noticing these things. Not that circumstances exactly help with that, what with the shared locker room and the memories they hold. Imprinted in these tiles lies their entire history of anger and want, tenderness and despair, and now it seems they’ve come full circle, spitting jabs at each other again between these all too familiar walls. Deniz is not usually one to appreciate the subtleties of black humour, but the irony is hard to miss.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Roman says, with an infuriating expression of mild distaste. “Someone assumed – wrongly, I might add – that what or who you do is of any interest to me.”

Even now, this back and forth is startlingly familiar, like a game they play, or maybe a dance; like one of Roman’s stupid, meticulously choreographed free-skates, and Deniz is sick of remembering all the moves, and sick of Roman being the one who leads.

“Well, it’s none of your fucking business, anyway,” he says shortly, crossing his arms before his chest and wishing he was wearing more than a towel.

Roman actually laughs, although there’s not a bit of humour in it; it’s all sharp edges and something ugly underneath, something that sends a tingle of unease down Deniz’s unprotected spine. There was a time when he knew all the shades of Roman’s laughter, but he’s never heard this one. “No, Deniz, I’m well aware of that.” He pauses, tilting his head; Deniz notices how the motion makes the fluorescent light shift on the long line of his neck, and hates that he remembers how Roman’s skin tastes, right there below his ear, in that spot that makes him shiver.

“Not that I give a toss about how you finance your doubtlessly glamorous lifestyle,” Roman adds, “but… don’t you think prostitution is a little pathetic, even for you?”

Embarrassment and fury fight a brief, heated struggle inside him, but before he has wrestled either emotion into a coherent response, the familiar beep-beep comes from his bag, announcing the arrival of a new text message. He grabs for the bag, grateful for the distraction. His fingers are shaking with anger as he digs his cell phone out of the side pocket. Julia’s message is short; hers usually are. She hates the tiny keys.

 _“done yet? waiting outside.”_

Damn it. She hates having to wait, and he isn’t changed yet. And the last thing he wants right now is to dress in front of Roman, not after this little exchange. He’s got to get him out of here.

“What do you think is more pathetic?” he says, his back turned to Roman, striving to make his voice as contemptuous as he can. It isn’t hard. “To screw someone for money, or to constantly hang around your ex, pitching hissy fits and hoping for another pity fuck?” He clicks the mobile shut, and reaches for his locker. “Well, you can forget about it, Roman,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Like you said, that doesn’t come free anymore. Now if you’ll excuse me – I gotta get ready for work.”

~~~~~

Sticks and stones. Roman’s had a lifetime to build a thick skin, but somehow this scorn, unsophisticated as it is – maybe _because_ it is – batters his well-worn defences. Where he resorts to razor-sharp sarcasm and trip wire, Deniz’s hatred has always been blunt. Now it bludgeons him, hurting more than Roman wishes it did, coming as it does from someone that he can only explain as his most severe lapse in judgment.

He’s glad Deniz has turned his back so he can steel his features. Unfortunately it also affords a too revealing look of his body, of angles that should be too sharp and limbs that should be unwieldy, but that on Deniz fit together in an ideal package. He lifts his arm to spray on deodorant and that simple movement sends his trapezius muscles rippling like wind rolling over sand, sculpting objects of fleeting perfection. Memory itches in Roman’s fingers that know too well how each flex would feel. He wonders if the sensations have seeped into his marrow, there to torment him until his dying day.

 _Nonsense,_ Roman chides himself, clenched fists drawing back some of his anger at Deniz, and at himself. These sensations should have faded by now, _would_ have faded, if he hadn’t let himself backtrack so many times. If he hadn’t let Deniz have the upper hand. That’s what he won’t surrender today. “Deniz, Deniz,” he tsks, his voice rife with condescension, “what’s pathetic is that, after all this time, you’re still so delusional. You still think that everybody wants you, because that’s so much easier than figuring out what it is that you want.”

Deniz slams his deodorant into the back of his locker; its metallic crash buoys Roman’s confidence that he’s hit his mark. Deliberately he turns around, his hands pinned to towel-clad hips, but the attempt at aggression has lost its impact through overuse. Or maybe Roman’s aggression is just greater, finally. Deniz’s lips part for his comeback, but Roman gets there first. “Maybe whoring really is the perfect career for you.”

“Fuck you.”

He really shouldn’t be so satisfied by the raw hatred in Deniz’s eyes, but as Roman moves closer he’s grateful for it. Better than when they soften and feed Roman’s want, clawing and hungry and caring nothing for his pride. This glare fuels his bitterness instead, ragged and burning and aching to share. “Yes, well, that is what you always come back to, isn’t it? Seems it’s your default response. Oh, but what am I thinking? You’re a professional now.” Roman whips out his wallet and thumbs through the notes there. He yanks out a twenty and waves it just under Deniz’s nose, near enough to catch on snarling lips. “What, not enough?” Roman pulls out another. _What the hell are you doing?_ that voice in his head demands to know, but he ignores it. He’s got a point to prove, and even if he’s not entirely sure what it is, he isn’t about to give up now. “Isn’t this how it works?” he taunts, surprising even himself by the venom leeching his words. “Money exchanged for services rendered? You’re the expert here, maybe you should explain it to me.”

~~~~~

There is a thing about Roman Wild that many people don’t know, and Deniz sometimes wishes he didn’t: Just because he’s easily hurt, just because he’s short and has made a career out of moving gracefully, just because he smiles a lot and is nicknamed for the fluffiest, most harmless of creatures, doesn’t mean that he’s defenceless, or fragile. Quite the contrary.

Roman is like those crazy Axels and Lutzes he jumps – they look pretty and effortless and light as a feather, but if you’ve got your fingers in the wrong place at the wrong time, those honed blades will slice them clean off. Deniz knows this, because no matter his intentions, he seems to have made a habit out of having his fingers in the wrong place.

He feels that cut now, precise and surprisingly hurtful, as keen as the hair-thin edge of the twenty that grazes his lip. He jerks back his head and lashes out instinctively, resentment and shame mingling into a white-hot flash of attack that comes as natural to him as breathing. No matter the backlash, he’s never quite got the knack of prudent withdrawal.

“Have you totally lost it now? Get the hell off me!” He only feels Roman’s bare shoulders under his hands for a second before he’s shoved him away, not intending anything more than to get him out of his face, really, put some much-needed distance between them; but he’s forgotten about his open locker. Taken by surprise by his shove, Roman stumbles back, and there’s a tinny noise as the edge of the metal locker door connects with his head, hard. He makes a muffled noise of pain, and despite everything, Deniz can feel his heart miss a beat in sudden fear at the momentary daze in Roman’s eye, the uncoordinated backwards stumble as his hand flies to his temple, face contorting briefly into a grimace of pain.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Deniz has taken a step forward, one hand unconsciously reaching out to steady Roman before he falls; and just as quickly, Roman has regained his balance, his gaze clearing and then sharpening into something merciless and chilling. Deniz’s hand is slapped aside in a motion as swift as a striking adder.

“My mistake,” Roman grits out, and before Deniz can ask what he means or make some trite peace offering that will allow them both to get out of this with a minimum of damage, there’s another note before his face, this time the crisp, accusatory green of a hundred. “Shouldn’t have assumed that you’d come cheap just because you act it, should I? There. Is that more like the going rate?”

Fury, again. There’s a part of him that observes, quite calmly, that he’s yet to meet another person who can whip his emotions into a frenzy at a heartbeat’s notice quite like Roman does, draw responses from him with surgical precision, for good or ill. He stomps deliberately on the observation and sneers into Roman’s cold, controlled face. “I’m sorry, but I’m on an exclusive contract at the moment.” Spite makes him add, “I can give you the number of my agency, though, if you’re that desperate.”

He makes to side-step Roman, aiming for his bag and the safety of his clothes; but just as swiftly, Roman has mimicked his step, staying in front of him, blocking his exit. His eyes have subtly shifted colour, darkened from blue to frozen slate-grey, and there’s an ugly cast about his mouth that Deniz, even after months of learning all the nuances of Roman’s anger and despair, doesn’t recall ever seeing. Unease unfurls in the pit of his stomach like a night-blooming flower, secretive and pungent. He moves to the other side and frowns when once again, Roman moves with him, blocking him. “Get out of my way,” he growls from between clenched teeth.

~~~~~

Roman chokes back his perverse urge to laugh. This back-and-forth shuffle they’re doing feels terribly familiar, although of late their positions have been reversed, and their responses so vastly different. Whenever Deniz blocked his way, Roman kept moving through, every fall back onto Deniz’s damned couch feeling afterwards like a fall in competition – disastrous and disheartening, and nothing for it but to pick himself up and carry on as if nothing’s happened. Now, when their positions have changed, Deniz throws down his gloves and comes out fighting, words barbed and lip curled like an angry dog. It would be threatening, but Roman’s seen this anger too many times and recognises it for the bluff it is. Oh, there’s hatred there to be sure, but there’s also uncertainty sneaking through Deniz’s rising flush, nervousness in eyes that dart hummingbird-quick over first Roman’s shoulder, down to the coloured notes in his hand, then almost reluctantly to his lips. He’s touched a nerve, and Roman is obscenely proud to know he still can.

“What, you think you get to choose who you fuck?” Roman scoffs, his voice sounding unnaturally light for all the dark imaginings he’s had running through his head these last few days: Deniz on his knees, on all fours, in all kinds of positions, with all kinds of faceless people. “Sorry, that’s not how it works. You’re nothing but a cock now, Deniz. You’re just a hole for anybody to use. Do you really think anyone gives a damn what you want?”

Deniz’s upper lip droops, for just a flicker of an instant, and Roman knows he’s hit his mark. It strikes him, in an oddly distant way, as if he’s watching it unfold on the television screen, that he should feel some kind of compassion for this boy who’s gotten in way over his head. He used to; it wasn’t that long ago when he wanted to keep him from getting hurt – when he would have stood up to anybody, said anything to anyone, just to ease Deniz’s way. _And look where that’s gotten you,_ reminds the bitter voice rising straight out of the painful lump throbbing above his ear. The memory of Deniz reaching out for him fuels his contempt. Attack without thought, regret the consequences, offer comfort, rinse and repeat. Deniz’s behaviour never changes, no lessons are ever retained. And he proves it with his next words.

“I told you already, I’m on an exclusive contract.”

And isn’t that rich, this timely discovery of fidelity? It’s enough to bring Roman’s simmering anger to a boil. Deniz is his, and always will be, if only because he was the first to see Deniz for who he really was. It’s something that his friends – and he scoffs at the idea of that label applied to those he shares his life with these days – never understood about his obsession. And yes, it was – _is_ – an obsession, there’s no denying that, but a proprietary one, not just shallow physical attraction like they thought. Now these words stoke some feral impulse in Roman to stake his claim, and when Deniz attempts another side-step, he shoves him hard against the lockers. Sounds of clanging metal echo off tiled walls, still not loud enough to swallow Deniz’s gasp of surprise as Roman’s forearm cuts across his throat. “Deniz, love, you wouldn’t know what exclusive meant if it bit you in the ass,” Roman snarls.

The hatred pouring from those jet-black eyes could rival his most warlike Turkic ancestors, but it’s only a second before Roman realises how ineffectually Deniz struggles against his hold. Roman is strong enough, but in a pinch Deniz has the definite advantage of size. Levered against him, Roman feels the reason for this unexpected passivity press against his thigh. He laughs, so coldly he’s sure it’ll freeze his tongue. “Guess not everyone’s up on the terms of your _exclusive_ contract.”

~~~~~

The urge to shove Roman away and send him toppling to the hard tiles is almost as strong as the urge to yank him closer and push his tongue between his lips to make him stop saying things. It’s a perverse duality that goes back almost as far as he’s known Roman, Deniz thinks: wanting him closer, wanting him gone. Even now, it’s an infuriatingly familiar and contradictory thrill in his blood, this need to make a space between them, pull his boundaries into place and deny Roman access, even while he can’t help but notice the soft shadow of Roman’s lashes on his cheekbones and the curve of his lips, the solid pressure of his body, compact and tightly muscled and moving with that damnable, unconscious grace, even in fury. And as ever, he wants that, a want that doesn’t give a whit for whether it’s appropriate or convenient. There’s no hiding it, either, not with Roman in his face like this, pressed up close against him. He can sense the exact moment Roman notices, a slight narrowing of his eyes and an experimental nudge with his hip; and he feels heat flushing his cheeks at the derisive laughter and the taunt that follows it.

Something is different this time, though, something off about Roman’s reactions. There’s a shade of meanness to his expression that looks threatening and unlovely, distorting what Deniz was sure he knew him to be: Roman doesn’t do this. Roman has no trouble flaunting his hurts or demanding attention; he can wield cutting words with spiteful precision, and he’s a sarcastic bastard, but even at their worst times, he’s never been cruel.

The cold sneer standing testimony to that unaccustomed cruelty is like a personal affront to Deniz, and he reacts on instinct, propelled by proximity and a need he doesn’t care to examine. He dips his head quickly and leans in for a kiss, driven by the urge to reshape that offensive, foreign expression on Roman’s face, to mould it forcibly into something different with his lips and tongue and teeth; but just as quickly, Roman’s head jerks back and his forearm across Deniz’s throat slams forward, hard enough that he makes a choking sound at the impact.

When he manages to focus, Roman’s face is close before his again, set in tight lines of contempt. “Sorry, Deniz,” he says coldly, “I don’t kiss whores. Who knows where your mouth’s been lately.”

He’d recoil if he could, but there’s no room, not even to breathe. “You fucking jerk,” he spits, struggling. “I’m not a whore.”

As if to contradict him, his mobile beeps again, accusingly, and Deniz bites off a curse. He’s forgotten about Julia. He wraps a hand around Roman’s wrist and pulls, trying to get his arm off his throat; but Roman doesn’t budge, and fury or not, Deniz is reluctant to stoke up the violence after that little incident earlier. Also, his damned towel isn’t sitting too securely anymore, and the last thing he wants is to make it slip by moving too quickly. “My client’s waiting.”

Roman makes a noise that can’t exactly be called a laugh, although his lips pull back from his teeth. “He has ’clients’ but he’s not a whore. What would you call it, then? Rentboy? Hustler? Gigolo?” A pause, precisely measured for maximum impact. _“Escort?”_

Deniz schools his face to forced impassivity, despite the anger roiling inside him – anger at Roman, yes, but also at himself, for letting himself be lured in so damnably easily by Roman’s taunts and the all too familiar feel of his hands on his body, which betrays him so ruthlessly with its obvious reaction, making it difficult to concentrate on what he’s supposed to say. He clenches his teeth, increasing the pressure on Roman’s wrist. “I thought you weren’t going to touch me.”

~~~~~

This close, Deniz is dangerous. Always has been, actually. He’s like a whirlpool that Roman could never help but circle, sometimes closer, sometimes gaining distance, never fully escaping. But it’s been a long time since Roman’s felt the eddies tug at him with so much strength. A tilt of Deniz’s belligerent chin sends a trickle of water spilling down his neck, following contours long imprinted in Roman’s memory. A snort of exasperation puffs against Roman’s cheek, feeling uncomfortably like a whispered caress. And worst of all is the erection hardly hidden under red terrycloth, jutting hard steel into Roman’s hip. It’d be terribly easy, just one move … it could even almost be accidental ...

Yes, dangerous thoughts to be having when they’re at each other’s throats, when Deniz’s fingers are circling his wrist, holding him in place every bit as much as pushing him away. With a sharp growl Roman twists his arm free, but doesn’t step back, and Deniz doesn’t push forward. They stay locked in place, a grenade with a missing pin, neither of them eager to find out which one has his finger on the safety.

But words are weapons too, and Roman has always felt well-armed where they’re concerned. “Oh, I’m not going to touch you, Deniz,” he snipes. “Obviously you prefer to let strangers do that these days. No commitments, you can pretend to be in love for half an hour – sounds perfect for you.”

“Go to hell,” scowls Deniz, practically spitting. “You don’t know the first thing about it.”

“No, I don’t,” Roman concedes. And that’s the thing that bothers him the most, really: the fact that he doesn’t. That his attempts to rationalise this have failed so completely, that this man glaring at him, cold as ice, used to not be such a mystery. But ice has never intimidated Roman, and there’s still one thing he knows about Deniz, something as unchanging as the tides. Steadily he presses his hips solidly against Deniz’s, his cock swelling in his sweats as it slips into a too-familiar groove, and hopes his own voice won’t catch as he says, “But I do know that you’re dying to touch me.”

The euros still in his fist fan across Deniz’s skin, colouring his flushed skin with green and blue. Roman watches as the edges drag slowly back and forth across his nipple, as Deniz’s lungs fill with a deliberately controlled breath. “And I’m curious: is a professional blow job really that much better than what I used to get for free?”

~~~~~

He couldn’t say, later, how he got there. Couldn’t say exactly when he crossed the line or why, other than that it was there to be crossed; that there was a challenge that he couldn’t let go unanswered. All he knows is that he’s tired of this lunge and retreat, the quick dart of Roman’s tongue and his own clumsy parry, so when Roman spells it out loud, couples it bluntly with the insult of crisp notes pressing into his chest, it’s almost a relief.

“Is that what you want?” he hears himself say, but his sneer is only default, and his voice sounds foreign and oddly toneless to his own ears. Roman tilts his head a little, blue eyes unblinking, and they measure each other for a seemingly interminable moment before Roman gives a small, controlled nod that holds an oddly formal balance between contempt and curiosity. “Yes. That’s all I want from you, Deniz,” he replies, and although his voice doesn’t hitch, although it’s cool and silky as expensive champagne, Deniz knows a small moment of triumph to discover he can still recognise when Roman lies.

He isn’t good at words, and he has always known himself to be hopelessly inadequate to Roman’s eloquence, his incessant need to communicate and wrestle every issue into a manageable format, measured by how many words he can throw at it until it crumbles. Likewise, Deniz has never mastered the complexities of spoken truths and lies, the many shades of betrayal lurking in a half-truth, or the deep pitfalls of silence where there should be words; words that he never seems to know.

But there are other, simpler truths to read here, and ironically enough, he’s a natural at those: Roman’s body calling to him with a pull as strong as it’s ever been; the secret thrill of attention in every graceful line of muscle and tendon; the heightened rush of blood with its all too familiar undercurrent of obsession. And yet none of it visible. Roman doesn’t blink, just keeps standing there and staring his challenge at him; there’s a small, superior smirk in the corner of his mouth that’s utterly infuriating, and Deniz wants him so much it contorts his fingers into claws, like arthritis, like a fever deep in his own bones. Physical truth Deniz understands, and there’s a cold, cynical little voice in the back of his head following in the wake of that thought: If bodies are the only thing he truly understands, then maybe Roman is right. Maybe whoring _is_ just the thing for him.

It’s with defiant deliberation, then, that he tugs at his already precarious towel, holding onto it for a second before letting it drop to the ground; eyes still locked to Roman’s, he sinks to his knees, hooking his fingers into the low-riding edge of Roman’s sweats as he goes down. He doesn’t pull them down just yet, although his fingers curl with subtle pleasure at the promise of bare skin underneath. Dropping his eyes from Roman’s face, he takes a moment to appreciate the bulge of his erection underneath the thin cotton, then leans forward on a whim, lips half-parted, to exhale hot breath along the hidden length. Even through the material of the sweats, he can feel the heat of it, can feel it lengthening and hardening further in response to the warm, damp gust of air, straining against its confinement, while above him, Roman releases a shuddering breath of his own.

Looking back up, he finds Roman’s face still set in grim contempt, but his eyes betray him, blazing blue like the heart of a flame. Holding his gaze, Deniz starts tugging at his sweats, deliberately slowly, and grins when he sees Roman’s eyes narrow. A surge of need thickens his own cock to almost painful hardness at the sight of his flushed face, the unconscious quick dart of his tongue between his lips.

Then those same lips draw back in a scowl, albeit a strained one. “Well, get on with it, then. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Only minutes ago, the jab might have propelled him into fuming retaliation, but now a mild stab of irritation is all it elicits. The mockery doesn’t hold any real power compared to the nearly imperceptible tilting of Roman’s hips towards him, seeking contact; against the sudden thrill of bare skin under his palms as he slides the sweats down, Roman’s taunts become insignificant.

Roman’s erection finally bobs free as he tugs the pants down and lets them drop to pool around Roman’s ankles, and Deniz swallows, mouth watering unbidden at the sight. Already swollen to the point of tenderness, Roman’s cock juts demandingly from its nest of dark blond curls, flushed dusky pink along the shaft and darkening to a richer, pomegranate hue around the head that makes Deniz want to pounce like a kid offered candy. A drop of pre-come has formed there, glistening enticingly. Deniz wets his lips, lifting a hand to touch, but an impatient noise comes from above him and hands slide into his hair, tugging him none too gently into the cradle of Roman’s hips, until his lips are half an inch away from their prize. “Suck me,” Roman’s voice drips down on his head, a dark-chocolate swirl of desire and derision that makes his cock throb in response. There’s an unfamiliar rustling against his hair that it takes Deniz a moment to identify, until he realises that Roman is still clutching the money, rubbing it against his skull as he digs his hands deeper into Deniz’s hair. He flushes in a quick surge of indignation, but can’t muster the resources for actual outrage, not when he can smell Roman’s need, spicy and familiar and so tantalisingly close; not when he can almost see the turgid flesh throbbing, yearning for contact.

He curls his hands around Roman’s hips, thumbs resting against the familiar grooves near the base of the bone, and gives in to the tug of Roman’s hands. Darting out his tongue, he swirls it round the head of Roman’s cock, once, twice, as if in welcome, unconsciously reacquainting himself with the texture and flavour of him, velvet-soft skin stretched tight across the stiffened shaft. There’s a moment where he has an odd flash of almost shyness, as if he hasn’t done this a hundred times; perhaps it’s just because he hasn’t recently. Blowjobs didn’t feature in either of their recent confusion-fuelled encounters, and the last time he’s tasted Roman on his tongue, they were in a very different place. _Don’t think about that._ Digging his hands deeper into Roman’s hips, he tilts his head to dip his tongue into the slit at the swollen tip of his cock, tasting the drops of fluid that have gathered there – earthy flavour with a hint of spices. It’s all he needs. He dives forward, wrapping his lips full around the width of the shaft and sliding along, tongue fluttering on the underside the way he knows Roman likes it. He would have pulled back halfway, enjoying the tease, but Roman’s hands in his hair are suddenly steely, holding him in place, and Roman’s hips jut forward, shoving his cock deeper into Deniz’s mouth. Unprepared for it, he struggles for a moment, gag reflex kicking in; but then, just as Roman’s grip eases up, it’s like something in him shifts: his jaw muscles relax and his mouth goes soft, and suddenly he doesn’t have to think to remember how this works.

There’s a breathy sort of sigh above him as he slides back and then forward again, taking as much of Roman’s cock as he can, saliva and pre-come mingling in his mouth, creating a rich slide of luxurious friction against the heated flesh as he curls his tongue around it. The sigh repeats as he gives it a long, slow suck, then lengthens into a moan when he increases the pressure. His fingers, loosely curled around Roman’s hips, can feel the contraction of muscles as his buttocks clench, and he slides his hands around, following the smooth curves and teasing briefly along the cleft before digging into full flesh, pulling Roman closer, deeper into his mouth. His own cock, so full it almost hurts, brushes up against Roman’s shin and he pushes against it shamelessly, eager for whatever contact is available; he makes a muffled noise in the back of his throat as he keeps sucking.

There’s a mad sort of elation bubbling inside him as Roman’s noises increase, soft hisses and moans and the occasional louder groan he can’t suppress. He releases Roman’s cock for a second, only to start lapping at it like an ice cream cone, wet and sloppy and hot, pulling all the stops to get him to keep making noises, keep tensing and clenching under his hands like he’s doing now, because he’s addictive, he always has been; the only thing better than seeing him lose control is to feel it in every tremble of muscle under his fingertips, taste his desire, sharp and dangerous as ozone, and swallow him whole.

It strikes him as funny, in light of Roman’s taunts about professionalism, that he’s still never done this for anyone but him. Oh, he tried with Vanessa a few times, but judging from her lacklustre responses, he doesn’t think he ever really figured out how to do it right, and anyway, it’s not the same as this; the vague memory of slick folds of girl-flesh hidden under dark curls is a world’s difference from the smooth length of Roman’s cock sliding against the roof of his mouth like he belongs there, the thrilling sensation of aliveness in holding another man’s desire at the tip of his fluttering tongue. All his training in how to pleasure a man still comes from Roman, who once whispered encouragements to him in the semi-dark when he tried this for the first time, things like, _don’t choke, take it slow_ and _that’s it, sweetheart, that feels so good_ and, anxiously, about half a dozen times, _you don’t have to, you know._

He doesn’t want to remember, not when that same man is now fucking his mouth with deliberate, near-brutal abandon, but he does anyway: his apprehensive eagerness and the way Roman tried to temper need with consideration, telling him over and over that there was time, no need to rush, when all he wanted was to learn more, to get better, to make Roman moan and tremble and climax like he’d done to him, and suck up his come to learn every nuance of his flavour.

Deniz pushes back against the memory angrily, trying to drown it in the sharp-edged abandonment he tastes at the back of his throat, mingling with the taste of Roman. He doesn’t want these echoes of bygone tenderness, of desire held in check by sweetness and laughter, an innocence of passion he’s since lost. He balances it defiantly against their frantic need of this moment, clashing against the backdrop of these tired old tiles. Blindly, he seeks more response from Roman, humping against his leg as he deliberately pulls his mouth away to let just a teasing tongue swirl against the head, a butterfly caress too light to be satisfying. Roman doesn’t disappoint, uttering a frustrated growl and grabbing his head tightly, holding him in place as he shoves himself back in between Deniz’s lips, fucking his mouth hard enough that he knows he’ll come away with bruised lips and a sore jaw, and he’s much too far gone to care. He lets his mouth go relaxed, keeps it soft for Roman to use as he pleases, and darts one hand down to his unbearably hard cock, gratefully thrusting into the loose circle of his fist. It’s getting hard to keep his erratic breathing under control, and he makes gasping noises around his mouthful, pumping himself hard.

 _So much for professional_ , he thinks as he slides his tongue around and underneath Roman’s shaft, pressing it flat against the pulsing vein on the underside and relishing the shudder of response that travels through Roman’s body into his own; _try customised._

~~~

 _Somewhere..._ , thinks Roman, somewhere there’s another version of himself and another version of Deniz, living out their parallel lives in another dingy locker room in another version of Essen. That version of himself gazes down at that other version of Deniz with unabashed fondness, runs fingers through that thatch of coarse hair in search of the surprising lushness where it grows thick, murmurs quiet, doting words of encouragement. Roman knows exactly what that other version of himself whispers to his lover, kneeling naked with a rare openness before him, and he knows that the querying look that other Deniz returns translates as _am I doing this right? I want to do this right for you._ That version of Deniz doesn’t reek of surety in repeating this thing that he’s surely done for so many johns; that version of himself is free to touch Deniz without acidic jabs of “Ice Queen” digging into his gut. That version of himself doesn’t look down to see a wad of money fisted in black, wiry hair, despising each step that’s brought them here.

And the worst part of it, the part that slams up an impenetrable wall between him and that alternative version of himself, is that _his_ Deniz, the Deniz who is painfully _not_ his, is getting into this – is obviously getting off on this. That thought scrapes a razor-sharp fingernail across his rising pleasure, leaving a tender abrasion that not only forestalls his climax but threatens to return tomorrow, and the next day, and for many days after that. Roman had imagined that he’d have to taunt Deniz to pretend he enjoyed this rough fuck, harder than anything they’ve done before. Together, at least. But the enthusiasm with which Deniz swallows every inch of him hints at a skill that stretches far beyond the long-ago experiences they’ve shared. The ones that Deniz has surely forgotten, diluted by the taste of more recent men’s flesh despoiling his tongue, but that remain impressed as deeply on Roman’s memory as his first perfect figure eight.

Jealousy flares, not green as rumoured, but a fiery red-orange that curls the edges of his vision like paper set alight. It has no logic – it’s not like Roman’s been a monk for these past few months. There’s been no shortage of pick-ups during his tour, and he can’t visit any club in Essen these days without running into a handful of men that he’s had his hands all over. But none of that matters now. All these facts are like words on a page, words that might have once held the power to sway opinions, to prove indisputable facts, but now are nothing more than flecks of ash whorling up into the air. That feeling of possessiveness lingers long after the cinders have burned away: Deniz should be his, _is_ his in that parallel universe, where these breathless gasps he’s making begin and end with Roman.

It’s a possessive hand that stretches around to the back of Deniz’s head, that drags his face closer until he has no choice but to swallow Roman’s entire length – that holds him there, nose to groin, until the very air Deniz breathes comes through Roman’s skin. Roman closes his eyes and exhales a deep groan, a thoughtless one that begins at the tip of his cock buried in Deniz’s throat and surges through him. Pure physical pleasure short-circuits his introspection for a rare moment of uncomplicated bliss. Roman clutches it for as long as he can, letting the seconds stretch and warp and circle back around until it feels like forever that he’s been like this, his orgasm spooling tighter and tighter and ready to spring. Deniz reacts, pursed lips sucking perfectly ... _professionally_ , Roman will later recall, but in this moment he’s conscious of nothing but lips sliding, perfect suction, the first hot rush that slams through him...

Vision fractures as Roman pours into Deniz’s mouth, blinding prismic angles that split him into countless pieces. In one of these sparkling shards is that other version of himself, and he watches as that Roman pulls that Deniz to his feet and presses him back across the lockers. His hands ache as that other Roman stretches out greedily for that other Deniz’s grateful cock. The heat it radiates seems to cross into this version of reality; Roman feels skin slip across his palm like silk drawn over steel. He hefts its delicious weight that seems to grow even as it bobs atop his fingers. It doesn’t take long for that other Roman to bring off that other Deniz, not with their mouths melting together in one of those heart-stopping kisses, the ones that demand the rest of the world pause until they’re ready to resume their place in it.

The ones that Roman reminds himself – sternly, with a constriction in his chest that for once he’s not about to examine – that he said he doesn’t want anymore.

On this side of reality, Deniz is still on his knees, still tossing off into the empty air by Roman’s leg. His lips hang open and slack; swollen and slick, they invite kisses and loving words, and entice Roman to suck his own bitter come off Deniz’s honeyed tongue. But dark eyes with the glazed look of an untamed animal destroy any such thoughts. His wavering gaze starts its erratic slide up to Roman’s face, but before it lands, Roman steps back, as brusquely as the hobble of his sweats will allow. Just in time; Deniz swallows a groan and splatters jism across the tiles, right where Roman was standing just seconds before. Roman cocks his eyebrow at the narrow escape. That’s all he needs, a mess for the laundry, another reminder of this stupidity.

He pulls up his sweats without ceremony, tucking himself in without sparing a second glance towards Deniz. But he’s surprised when Deniz’s phone beeps again. Not at the persistence of the caller – with his protective cynicism firmly back in place, Roman understands why they’d pay for this treatment – but that Deniz hasn’t lurched up to grab it. He wonders if it’s the arrogance of youth or Deniz’s certainty that whoever it is will wait forever – or if there’s something else behind his stillness. He almost asks, and knows that once he would have. Or if not asked, would still have worried the question in his head like a terrier with a bone until it’d worn smooth and given up all its secrets. But now he holds himself back. That belongs to the other Roman in that other world, and he wishes that he could leave it to him, once and for all.

The money is still in his hand, an almost startling reminder of how this whole thing began. “Here,” he says, flapping the once-crisp notes, now crumpled like dried leaves, in the space between them. “Take it, you’ve earned it.”

Deniz doesn’t move, though, other than to tilt his head up towards Roman. If he didn’t know better, he’d have read Deniz’s expression as betrayal, but that couldn’t be right, could it? Suddenly the anger that subsided in orgasm threatens to reignite; Roman can almost smell the phosphorus as oxygen is sucked into the flame. It’s an anger he doesn’t want to stoke, but his indignation won’t let it lie. Roman’s not the one to be accused of betrayal; he’s not the one who’s shown his true colours here. Balling the euros in his fist, he spits out, “Fine,” and tosses them to the ground. Whirling around without another look at Deniz, he hefts his bag to his shoulder, training all but forgotten, and slams through the door.

On the other side, though, he has to stop for a moment. He braces himself against the cold concrete wall, his legs feeling as unsturdy as his first crutchless steps after surgery. _The truth will come out soon enough,_ he’d said, even then tempting fate to disprove Mike’s gossip. Now, despite there being no denying it, truth still doesn’t seem to play any major part in their dealings. Roman rubs his brow as Deniz’s last look rewinds itself again and again. He used to be able to read every expression, even the most subtle, the ones that meant _yes, I can’t say the word, but I’ll follow you anywhere._ Now he can better read an imaginary Deniz in an imaginary world. Here in this world it’s become impossible to know what anything really means, ever since lies have become the only language they speak. When _I’m not a whore_ echoes in Deniz’s indignant voice, and _that’s all I want from you_ slides off his own tongue as smoothly as idle flattery for Frau Steinkamp.

Lies don’t sit easily on Roman’s tongue, though, no matter what Annette might think. They expand like that horrible communion wafer he’d taken decades ago at his grandparents’ church. He’d not swallowed it right away, and by the time he’d returned to his seat it had expanded until it’d grown too big for his throat. Given the choice between gagging or eternal damnation, he’d palmed the holy Host and pressed the soggy bread to the underside of the pew. He wonders if this hell he’s suffering now is the direct result of that incident.

And he wonders if at last he can stop lying, at least to himself.

~~~~~

Slumped back on his heels and half sideways onto the tangled mess of his abandoned towel, legs sprawling underneath him, Deniz stares at the closed door without blinking. He feels dazed, blind-sided, curiously emptied: as if by stepping away when he was at his most vulnerable, Roman pulled something with him, some small but vital thing he hadn’t known was attached until it ripped.

His mind can’t help but replay that last backwards step over and over, in perversely enhanced detail. It was so deliberate, putting himself out of the reach of Deniz’s impending orgasm as if it was something distasteful, like stepping away from a dog trying to pee on your leg. Dropping away from the door at last, his gaze catches on the crumpled-up banknotes near his knee, and he feels the blood rushing to his head so fast that it dizzies him, a hot flood of shame and humiliation.

So far, the opinions of others about his new job haven’t particularly fazed him, because it was easy to pretend that they just didn’t get it. His father’s wrath he’s used to; isn’t he always disappointing him in some way or another? Vanessa’s jabs stung a bit, but he could shake them off as the default reaction of a disgruntled ex; and he couldn’t care less about the scornful smirks of the likes of Mike Hartwig.

Julia has made it easy for him, too, in the three weeks since he’s agreed to her terms: She’s good-looking, entertaining and wryly indulgent, and when there is money involved, she always manages to hand it over with matter-of-fact grace, as if it had nothing to do with what they do together. Most of the time it’s like being taken out by the mother of a friend or something, just a lovely woman who likes to be seen with someone more presentable than her balding executive husband; who likes to flirt and tease and needle her sour-faced colleagues by showing up with a hot young model on her arm at company functions. Yes, there’s the sex, but it’s almost like with Kaja and her flock of giggling model friends – it’s a status quo thing, just part of the package, fun and friendly and quickly forgotten, never quite to be taken seriously.

 _And why’s that, then?_ a voice in his head inquires callously; it’s the same voice he heard earlier, a cynical, cold presence in the back of his head that he decides he doesn’t like very much. _Because they’re women?_

Deniz shakes his head unwillingly, dislodging the voice. The point is, despite his negotiations with the faceless girl on the other end of the escort phone line, despite that first, unpleasant encounter at the hotel room that he fled from, despite his bold-faced arrangement with Julia, he’s never _felt_ like a whore, until now.

This, though? This was different. This was real, and ugly, and more painful than he knows what to do with. The funny thing being, of course, that until that last, sudden jerk away from his face, leaving him dazed and defenceless, with come still dripping from his lips, it’d felt good – reckless and dangerous and yes, still angry; but liberating and truthful as well, in a way the two of them never seem to manage with words these days.

He can still taste Roman on his tongue, but it’s a bitter taste now, rank with shame and a betrayal he knows he has no business feeling. It’s not like he acted like he _wasn’t_ what Roman accused him of being, the way he went down on him that eagerly despite the jeers, despite the obvious contempt. Despite the money.

The money that lies still on the floor, two twenties and a hundred. As if to add a final touch of perverseness to it all, the hundred has landed in the sticky puddle of his own come, glued to the floor by the evidence of his abandoned pleasure.

Deniz drags his gaze away and uses his arms to pull himself to his knees and then, somewhat shakily, to his feet. He shuffles over to the sink to rinse out his mouth and curses when he gets a good look at his face. “Fuck.” His lips are tender and noticeably swollen already, unused to the rough treatment; and little though he minded while caught up in the middle of it, he curses again now, touching his fingers to them gingerly. Lips aren’t exactly an easy part of your body to hide.

He doesn’t hear the firm clacking of high heels on tiles until they’re almost at the door, only seconds before a woman’s voice rings out, crisp and annoyed: “Deniz? Are you in there?”

Panicked, he stares wildly about himself for something to cover up with but only just manages to grab up his towel and sling it around his hips before the door opens and Julia steps in, glossy-haired and flushed from the cold, chic in her leather coat, and looking royally pissed off.

“What on earth is taking you so long? I thought practice ended over half an hour ago! We have reservations for dinner and I texted you about seven…”

She trails off, and her eyes narrow as she takes him in, flushed and naked, clutching his towel. “What’s going on here, then?” Before Deniz can form a coherent response – something he’s not sure he’s capable of, anyway, under the circumstances – Julia’s stepped up close, reaching up to grasp his chin. “What the hell happened to your mouth?”

He jerks his head away from her touch instinctively, then tries to soften his reaction with a smile. “Uh… hockey. Someone, ah, punched it.”

“Uh huh. Through your helmet?” She’s told him once that for a woman in her profession to make it as far as she did, she’s had to be twice as quick-witted as anyone else. She wasn’t kidding. He’s up against the sink already, so there’s nowhere to escape to when she stands up on tip-toes, tilting her head, and brushes her lips across his in a brief kiss, still chilly from the cold winter air.

When she pulls back, her brown eyes, normally the warm hue of sherry, have hardened. “You sucked someone off just now.” Her mouth twists sideways in a sneer. “I do know the taste, you know.”

“I…” he starts, groping wildly for something to say, but Julia is already turning away, coat flaring around her as she does a swift survey of the locker room. She takes a few steps, nudges one of the crumpled twenty-euro notes with the tip of a polished leather boot, and turns back towards him with anger tightening her face into square lines that make her look older. “Haven’t even had time to collect the fee yet, have you?”

“Julia, it’s not…”

Her raised hand, palm towards him, cuts him off. “We had an arrangement here, Deniz. A three-month trial period, exclusive. You do know what that means, exclusive?”

 _“Deniz, love, you wouldn’t know what exclusive meant if it bit you in the ass.”_

He draws breath angrily to defend himself, but she’s talking right over him. “It means I don’t like sharing, Deniz. It means I don’t want to wonder where your dick has been before you stick it in me. It means I _don’t want to taste other men’s come on your breath._ ” She pauses, an angry flush high on her cheeks, and glares at him. “If I’d thought there could be room for misunderstanding there, I’d have phrased the terms a little more bluntly, but funnily enough, I thought ‘exclusive’ kind of covered the lot.”

“It’s my ex,” he blurts, trying to defuse a situation he feels rapidly slipping out of his control. “He’s… we have this history of… look, it’s not what it looks like, okay? It wasn’t a job. He was angry, and… but he’s not – I mean, I’m not…”

“Deniz,” Julia says, shaking her head; she sounds a bit calmer, but there’s a wry formality to her tone that he’s never heard. “I don’t care. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but I’m not interested in your little personal problems, okay? The purpose of our arrangement was not to have fuzzy heart-to-hearts about our respective relationships. I have my own baggage, and I’m not paying good money to be saddled with someone else’s.”

He stares at her, dumb-founded: an attractive businesswoman in her late thirties, her anger now firmly under control, who looks at him with nothing more than professional annoyance, and he doesn’t have a clue who she is, or what he’s doing here with her.

Julia cocks her head, the shiny curtain of her hair falling forward over the lapel of her coat. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

It would probably be alright, if he did. If he apologised properly, put on a smiling, solicitous face and let her take him out to dinner, if he lavished her with attention to make up for his distasteful slip and later followed her to a hotel room and let her do to him whatever she likes. It might be okay.

But he says nothing, and after a moment, Julia nods curtly and digs in her purse for her car keys. “Consider the contract void,” she says coolly. “Just so you know, I’ll be advising the agency not to solicit your services anymore. No one appreciates unprofessional conduct.” She pauses at the door, looking back over her shoulder. “It takes more than just a pretty face to work in this line of business, Deniz,” she says, not entirely unkindly. “And you’ve clearly got some conflict of interest going on here. I suggest you figure out what it is and don’t waste other people’s time with commitments you can’t stick to.”

With that, she’s gone, her heels clacking away down the length of the hall, and once again, Deniz is left staring at a closed door. He shuts his eyes and rubs his hands across his face as if to erase the trace of her touch, or Roman’s, or both; when he reopens them, they’re drawn yet again to the offensive three notes of money on the floor. With a muttered curse, he kicks at them – ineffectively, since he’s barefoot and they don’t exactly offer a lot of resistance. One of the balled-up twenties bounces off the tiles to disappear in the crack between the lockers and the wall; the other two stay more or less in place, the hundred still stuck to the floor with dried come.

He stumbles past them into the shower and turns it up as hot as he can bear. Standing under the hard pressure of the water, he pushes his palms flat against the wall and lets his head drop, trying to find breath in the damp space near his own chest. Despair and shamed rage uncoil slowly inside him, fanning outwards and up as if released by the punishing rush of hot water that pummels his bowed shoulders, sluicing the taste and touch and smell of Roman off him, at least on the outside. Unconsciously, his hands clench into fists, and a sound tears itself out of him, an enraged, inarticulate cry that sends his right fist flying, slamming into the slick tile once, twice, three times. He’s sobbing furiously and uncontrollably, shoulders heaving and lungs constricting in near-panic, trying to draw air from the hot, uncompromising wetness that surrounds him. On the fourth punch, the tile actually gives, a crack opening and a shard of ceramic breaking off to clatter to the wet floor. Blinking rapidly against the water running down from his hair, Deniz watches it bounce between his feet and then lie still near the drain, streaks of red rapidly diluting around it as water rinses blood off his split knuckles.

Suddenly there’s not an ounce of strength left in his legs. He slumps down, forehead dropping onto his knees and his arms wrapped over his head, still gasping for breath as, like the tile, he cracks open.


	2. Interlude 1: Deniz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blow job lips are a bitch to hide. Deniz struggles with the aftermath of his encounter with Roman.

His father’s first words when he walks in the door are, “You’ve been a while. Had a hard day at _work_?”

Deniz stops in the middle of kicking off his shoes and glares through the yellow archway at his father, who is sprawled on the couch, a beer bottle dangling loosely from his hand. It’s a familiar sight, these days. Not that it was ever something exactly out of the ordinary – Marian Öztürk does love his casual evening beer – and he doesn’t ever get drunk or unpleasant, but something is different about his posture lately: something gloomy and nearly despondent that he doesn’t seem to let in until late at night, when the bar is closed and all daily affairs taken care of and nothing left to distract him from disappointment and loneliness. On some level, Deniz resents it as much as he resents Marian’s meddling. It’s like a mute accusation, spelling out all too clearly, _See what you’ve driven me to?_ Of course. Everything’s always his fucking fault. God forbid any of these people stop for a second and consider their share of whatever blame they heap so generously on him.

Any other night, he might have made something of it, picked up on the challenge in Marian’s voice and flung it back in his face; but not tonight, when he’s feeling tired and sore and like cracked ice inside. All he wants is a door to close on the world and a blanket to pull over his head.

“Hi,” he mumbles, dumping his hockey bag unceremoniously in the middle of the corridor. With any luck, someone will stumble over it and break their neck on the way to the toilet at night. Then he remembers Lena, who is relatively innocent and probably doesn’t deserve breaking her neck or losing her baby. With a grumbled curse, he kicks the bag to one side, out of the way.

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Marian observes sardonically, taking another sip. “Did the job not go well?”

The pause before ‘job’ is just long enough to be insulting, and Deniz gives the bag another kick, sending it all the way into the corner. “It went smashing,” he retorts, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice, and makes for the fridge. He hears a hissing noise from Marian as he passes, and then his father is up, crossing the room in three long strides and grabbing him by the shoulder. As Marian yanks him around, Deniz wonders for a brief, confused moment if he’s about to get socked; whether perhaps Marian has been sitting on that couch for hours, steeping in anger and just waiting for a spark to lit the fuse. Instead, Marian stares at his mouth, frowning. “What happened to you?”

Too late, Deniz remembers his bruised lips, which must look even worse now than two hours ago. Unthinking, he brings up a hand to cover them, then drops it again quickly when he realises it’s the hand he broke the tile with, now clumsily wrapped in a bandage he nicked from the first aid kit in the locker room. Four near-identical stains of blood have seeped through at the knuckles, and the irony of this injury isn’t lost on Deniz: the fact that it’s the same hand he’s bruised once before in self-loathing rage, and on behalf of the same person. As ever, Roman brings out the sides of him that are in jarring misalignment.

“Answer me, dammit!” his father demands, worry momentarily obliterating his cynicism. “What happened? Did you get in a fight?” He grabs the hand Deniz is trying to hide, unsuccessfully, behind his back, and inspects the drying bloodstains. His face darkens. “Was it that… that…”

Despite himself, and although he knows he’s just making matters worse, Deniz laughs; it burns his throat like reflux as it comes out. “Julia? No, Dad, don’t worry – your whoring son didn’t get beaten up by his evil client.”

Marian’s frown deepens; still concerned, although his mouth tightens with annoyance. “Deniz. I want to know what happened.”

“Nothing.” Deniz jerks his hand away, takes a step back to escape closer scrutiny of his lips, which feel puffy and foreign in his face. “Nothing important,” he amends when he sees his father’s brows draw close together. “Look, Dad, just forget about it, okay? I’m fine.”

“Dammit, Deniz…” Marian makes a small, aborted gesture that together with his tone holds more desperation, more futile anger, worry and helplessness than Deniz feels himself equipped to handle. He can’t deal with someone else’s breakdown right now, especially not if it’s over him.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, his voice sounding high and strained to his own ears. “Really, okay? I’m just tired from practice. See you tomorrow.”

Deniz flees for the sanctuary of his room before his father can say another word, turning the key in the lock and leaning for a moment with his back against the door, eyes closed, trying not to revisit the locker room, and failing.

He can’t get the memory of the money out of his head: three crumpled notes, left scattered across the floor of the locker room, where doubtlessly tomorrow some cleaning lady will gleefully seize the unexpected bonus ( _I hope she wipes it first_ , that cynical voice pipes up again in the back of his head). Every time he thinks of it, it hits him with as much force, as much stunned humiliation, as the second when Roman threw the money at him; the impact doesn’t seem to lessen. He’s not quite sure what he set out to prove when he went down on his knees, other than to satisfy his own need, but vaguely, he knows that he held notions of showing Roman he was wrong; that he, Deniz, could have what he wanted and still somehow emerge the winner from their little clinch.

He doesn’t think he’s ever lost quite so spectacularly, nor been quite so wrong.

~~~

Morning brings the smell of coffee wafting into his room, and a feeling like someone’s glued a dead fish to his mouth. It takes him a moment and a clumsy grope at his face to realise the dead fish is his lips, still puffy and tender. The skin stretches painfully as he yawns, and his jaw cracks sorely. Groaning, Deniz resists the urge to pull the pillow back over his face and makes himself roll out of bed.

The bathroom mirror shows him bleary-eyed and stubbly, his mouth less obviously bruised than last night but still pretty damn noticeable. Deniz grimaces at it and goes about the challenging task of shaving without looking in the mirror more than strictly necessary. It’s a miracle he doesn’t slash his throat.

The first time he wore a visible mark of Roman’s attentions, he was by turns embarrassed and goofily proud of it; he remembers how that entire day, his fingers would steal up to his neck at random intervals, probing the dark red mark of the hickey as if to make sure it was still there; remembers the stupid urge to show it off, to grin and crow _“looook, someone liiiikes me”_ like a twelve-year-old.

This isn’t like that. The tender swell of his lips is like a brand of accusation in his own face, livid proof of having been had and dismissed without so much as a by-your-leave. Every time he looks at it, he can see Roman’s face instead, mouth twisting slightly in distaste, pulling up his sweats as quickly as he can. This is so far removed from being a mark of affection that it’s in a different realm entirely – it’s a brand of angry, careless, temporary possession, and it might as well spell _spoiled goods_.

Deniz ducks into the shower quickly, turning the faucet nearly all the way to blue and trying not to think. The near-frigid water hits his heated face in a rain of tiny ice needles that’s almost soothing, and he tilts his head up into it eagerly.

He emerges into the kitchen some time later, dressed and having clumsily stuck a few band-aids on the cracked knuckles of his hand, and feeling, if not entirely human, a little less like last week’s rubbish spilled from a ripped bag. His father’s sitting at the table, browsing the paper while punching numbers into his phone. Lena, tousle-haired and still in her pyjamas, is leaning against the kitchen counter, cradling a mug of peppermint tea while stealing longing glances at the coffee pot. She’s looking peaky.

“Morning,” Deniz mumbles. His father looks up briefly, brow furrowing, then nods curtly. “Morning.”

Lena waves vaguely, wrinkling her nose at the steam rising from her mug. “Word of advice,” she grumbles, “Don’t ever get a woman pregnant. She’ll hate your guts for it.”

Deniz blinks. “I’ll, er, keep it in mind.” He notices the change in his father’s posture a split second before turning his head to actually see it: the suddenly rigid shoulders, the phone raised halfway to his ear and frozen there. Their eyes meet, and Deniz is caught off-guard for a second by the raw pain in his father’s gaze. Behind him, Lena makes a dismayed noise. “Shit, Marian, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” Marian says, too quickly, and waves the phone dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, really, I wasn’t thinking…” Lena starts, but Marian cuts her off – “Lena, it’s fine” – a tad too sharply, and Lena falls silent. They all stand frozen for a moment, a still life in awkward angles and chagrin. Deniz feels, as he sometimes does, the lack of Nadja’s warm, comforting presence in the room, in their lives, like a physical gap: a jagged-edged hole that none of them know how to mend or fill. Nadja would know what to say. She’d set it right. She wouldn’t let them stand about and hurt alone.

Of course, if Nadja were here, they wouldn’t be having this awkward moment in the first place.

Then Marian clears his throat and smiles a bright and laboured smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he says again, more gently this time. “Anyway, I’ve got to…” He nods at the phone. Deniz busies himself with the coffee, grateful to have something to do with his hands. Beside him, Lena tilts her head and frowns. “Deniz, what happened to your-“

“Nothing,” Deniz cuts her off quickly, stirring sugar into his coffee with rather more force than necessary. Lena lifts her hands. “All right, all right. Apparently I woke up with my foot in my mouth this morning. Blame the hormones?”

Marian’s muttered curse saves Deniz a reply. “Doesn’t anyone just answer their phone anymore? I’ve called eight people and got voicemail for six of them!”

“Who’re you trying to call?” Deniz asks, turning around and sipping at his coffee, which is hot and strong and comforting.

“Camilla’s still on vacation and her replacement called in sick. I’m trying to find someone to help out at No. 7.”

“I told you I have time today,” Lena offers, pouring the rest of her tea down the drain with a grimace. Marian shakes his head, looking obstinate. “And I told you I’m not letting a pregnant woman carry trays all day. Thanks for offering, though. I’ll find someone.” He’s already clicking through his address book, lips moving soundlessly.

Deniz takes another sip of coffee, relishing the hot slide down his throat. For the briefest moment, it reminds him of yesterday, Roman’s hands on his head holding him in place as his climax took him, the sound he made, as if he was in pain… He coughs, and nearly chokes on hot coffee. Lena gives him an odd look. “I could help out.” The offer comes out before he knows he meant to make it, and Marian looks at him quizzically. The corners of his mouth tuck down.

“Aren’t you busy with your… with that…”

Deniz grits his teeth, registering the lingering soreness in his jaw as he does so. It adds fuel to his irritation. “No I’m not,” he bites out. “But if you’d rather find someone else, that’s fine with me.”

His father continues to stare at him, considering. Eventually, he shrugs, and clicks his phone shut. “No, that would be great. If you’ve got nothing better-” He stops, looks down at his hands, and shakes his head. “That would be great,” he repeats.

~~~

Things never change at No. 7. Wiping tables, taking orders, carrying trays. Deniz is half amused and half dismayed at how comforting it feels, these familiar chores that a few weeks ago, he gave up for more glamorous pastures. _Except that there’s nothing glamorous about ending up naked on your knees in a locker room while your ex throws money at you,_ the voice in his head reminds him spitefully, and he sets down a tray with rather more force than necessary, eliciting alarmed looks from the diners round the table. Deniz murmurs an apology and retreats with a forced smile.

His mobile is lying behind the counter, beckoning with its wealth of numbers, promising distraction. The escort service line is in there, too.

He could call them, he supposes. Nothing to stop him. Perhaps Julia hasn’t had time to ring them and complain about him yet, and even if she has, they probably wouldn’t care all that much; he knows they’re always booked up, and in need of more people. Yeah, he could call. He probably will, in a little bit. When he gets bored. When his father can no longer resist making another jab about why he isn’t “working”.

Marian doesn’t say anything, though, just hands him an order for another table and disappears into the kitchen to discuss the menu with Celine, and at the end of the day, after they’ve settled the books and locked up the cash and done the cleaning, Marian merely gives him a little nod and says, in a carefully neutral tone, “Thanks for helping out today. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” The words feel stiff in Deniz’s mouth. He pauses. Clears his throat. “Uhm.”

His father looks up at him from the calculator, features so deliberately indifferent that Deniz feels a random, absurd urge to poke his tongue out at him and see if that cracks the polite facade. “What?”

“If you. I mean. I could help out again tomorrow, if you still need someone.” Deniz says it quickly, before he can change his mind. He doesn’t look at Marian, gathering his keys and his mobile from behind the counter instead. Without meaning to, he’s tensed up, knowing any second now his father will make a wisecrack about how surely he has better things to do, surely he needs to be _working_ , surely his _client_ will need him, and he knows that when it comes, he’ll have no choice but to spit an insult and flee, and call the agency tomorrow.

But the expected taunt doesn’t come. After a long pause, Marian simply says, “I’d like that,” and the rush of relief he feels at that, of gratitude, almost, is surely absurd.

“Okay.”

~~~

Over the course of the next few days, it becomes a game, almost – a strange, unaccustomed game in which all the rules seem to revolve around stamina and refusal to engage. They go through the familiar motions of running the bar, exchanging the necessary information – “another three beers for table six” and “could you get those empty plates” and “I think that guy’s had enough” – and otherwise move around each other in an oddly cautious, oddly polite fashion that steers carefully clear of any loaded topic.

Deniz knows his father is watching him, and Marian probably knows that he knows. He can see the questions in his father’s eyes, in the slight frown that’s such a staple of his expression these days when he looks at his troublesome son. Deniz can sense the mistrust and the curiosity, and although he knows he deserves both, he can’t help but resent them still. He dreads the moment the questions will inevitably come out, leaving him no other options than a complete loss of face or an angry retreat; the anticipation is a small, hard knot in the back of his throat that makes it difficult to breathe.

It’s all right, he tells himself. He can still call the agency anytime. He might even do it today, if the tension gets too much or if Marian finally breaks and demands to know what the hell he’s doing here. Maybe he’ll call anyway, just because he can. He’s an adult. He can do as he damn well pleases. Screw his father’s disappointment and the bar and his friends’ frowns and Mike’s sneers, and above all, screw Roman Wild. He’ll call if he feels like it. Really.

There’s nothing to stop him, after all.


	3. The Rittberger Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing is, playing hockey requires concentration, and that's hard to come by when at every practice session, half his mind is already off the ice.

_Rittberger: A loop jump that takes off from a back outside edge and lands on the same edge._

“Alright, ladies,” Ingo says cheerfully, clapping his hands, “that was dreadful. Bloodcurdling. Impressively pathetic. Maybe next time we can invite the ballet girls along and we can all sit in a little circle on the ice and sing Kumbaya and then we’ll giggle and talk about boys, and _then_ -”

“Okay, Ingo, we get the point!” Vanessa yells impatiently, yanking off her helmet. “We suck. Can we go now?”

The rest of the team grumble in agreement, shuffling restlessly on the ice like a herd of garishly dyed bulls, shoulders drawn up against the sharp whip of their trainer’s tongue. Deniz would join in the sentiment, if it wasn’t Vanessa who had voiced it. Instead, he holds his tongue, pretending to inspect a strap on his helmet, turning it back and forth between his hands.

Ingo snorts. “You do suck, and no, you don’t get to go – chewing you out is the only thing about this training session that doesn’t feel like a complete waste of my time, and I plan to indulge. So!” Another sharp clap. “Defence! Karsten, Marco, I don’t care if you’re about to leave the team – while you’re still here, do me the courtesy to _pretend_ like you give a toss about keeping the puck out, okay? Vanessa, I don’t know where your head has been this entire week, but I’d like it back on the ice next time, if that’s at all possible. And Deniz – puck, net, into! Any of that ring any bells? Stick? Striker? Scoring goals?”

Deniz ducks his head lower and murmurs something non-committal. In truth, he doesn’t even remember having _seen_ the puck today. It’s easy to dismiss Ingo’s acerbic joking as just bluster, but underneath the jovial tone, Deniz can tell he’s actually pissed off, not that he can blame him. They _have_ been playing like crap, not just today, and he knows a lot of it is his fault.

The thing is, playing hockey requires concentration, and that’s hard to come by when at every practice session, half his mind is already off the ice, bent with almost desperate eagerness towards the point where he can escape the rink, spend only the absolute minimum time in the locker room, and get out of the Centre as quickly as he can, lest he run into Roman. For nearly two weeks, he’s darted in and out of the rink like a child dipping a toe in cold water and then bolting; where once he would have lingered after practice, sipping a drink at the bar or spending a leisurely hour by the pool, he now makes straight for home and has even taken to postponing showers until the relative safety of his own four walls. It’s a nuisance, and he hates feeling driven to flee the place that used to be his second home, but it’s preferable to the alternative. The mere thought of a confrontation with Roman fills him by turn with rage and sick shame.

He hasn’t called the agency. He came close, a couple of times: once, after laboriously adding up the remainder of his debt to Marian and blanching at the result, he already had his mobile in his hand, the number on the screen and his thumb hovering over the dial button… and then the memory of Roman’s disgusted sneer drifted before his mind’s eye, the ghost sensation of hands in his hair and money rustling harshly against his ear, and he nearly flung the phone across the room. He hasn’t deleted the number, but he hasn’t called.

Another clap of Ingo’s pulls his attention back to the here and now. “All right, then, tryouts tomorrow!” he announces, consulting the clipboard in his hand. “Supposedly, we’ll have four people showing up. I have an extra aqua class, so I’m going to be half an hour late – Deniz, Vanessa, I’ll need you to take over until then.”

“What?!” At any other time, the perfect unison of their pitch and tone might have been amusing. In fact, there are a few snickers from the team, but Deniz can’t appreciate the humour. He and Vanessa exchange a brief look of dismay. Ingo frowns.

“Yeah. Vanessa’s been on the team the longest and Deniz is our strongest player, or would be if he stopped long enough to pull his head out of his arse and concentrate.” More snickering from behind. Deniz feels his cheeks go warm and anger bubble slowly to the surface. Ingo waves a dismissive arm at the rest of the players. “All right, you lot, shove off.” He skates up in a sharp curve as the team shuffles off the ice, coming to a halt just before Deniz and Vanessa.

“It’s just half an hour, guys, I’m not asking for the world. See if any of them know one end of a hockey stick from the other, take them through a few basic drills…”

“Dude, no,” Vanessa begins, and Deniz cuts in, annoyed. “Can’t Mike stand in?” Dealing with a handful of newbies on top of their lacklustre team is one thing, but doing it together with Vanessa, who is even now radiating resentment at him from the side….

“Mike’s booked up with the skaters for all of tomorrow. You slackers are my best option. Speaking of skaters, that reminds me –“ Ingo suddenly raises a hand, waving madly across the rink. “Yo, Mike! Snowbunny! Got a moment?”

From the step down to the rink, the familiar sound of skates scraping across ice approaches, growing louder as it nears, and Deniz can feel the back of his neck prickling. His spine goes rigid, shoulders tensing in near-panic. It’s ridiculous, but he imagines he can actually tell which of the scraping noises belongs to Roman’s skates: the one on the left, slightly smoother than Mike’s, who’s heavier on the ice and needs to build up more momentum.

“What is it, Ingo? Technically, the ice is mine for the hour.” Roman, blending against the ice in his white jacket, pulls up in a perfect half-circle next to Ingo, sparing no glance for Deniz or Vanessa. Quickly, Deniz averts his own eyes, finding a spot in the half-shadows beyond the boards and fixing it determinedly. His heart is pounding frantically and his airways seem to have constricted, making breathing difficult. He hasn’t been this close to Roman since the locker room, and all his instincts scream attack or bolt. He forces himself to stillness.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Ingo nod. “It’s about tomorrow. You’ve got the rink booked from two through four, right?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?” Mike sounds, as ever, as if he half-wishes it were.

“Not a big one, no, but I’ve got some tryouts coming at two thirty and Deniz and Vanessa will take them through some drills.” Eyes still fixed on his imaginary spot beyond the rink, Deniz briefly wonders how they got from _Deniz, Vanessa, would you?_ to _Deniz and Vanessa will_ ; it occupies him just for long enough to miss drawing the obvious conclusion to Ingo’s words, until Mike sighs. “So you want us to share?”

“Yep,” Ingo says, cheerfully unapologetic. “The kids’ll be doing basics, no actual playing, so they won’t be in the way too much. It should be fine.”

“What?!” Deniz blurts, too appalled to remember where to look; his eyes first find Ingo’s face, brows quizzically raised, then Mike’s customary sneer, and then, unavoidably, come to rest on Roman’s face. His features are carefully arranged into cool composure, although Deniz thinks he can spot just the briefest flicker of dismay.

“That’s not a problem, is it?” Ingo’s voice sounds like it comes from far away. “I don’t mind,” he hears Vanessa say, and Mike shrugs. “Fine with me.”

“Roman? Deniz? Problem?”

Deniz swallows hard, forcing down a sudden wave of nausea even as he feels his cheeks heat with almost painful warmth. “No,” he bites out, lifting his chin and holding Roman’s gaze. “No problem.”

*****

Two weeks back, and Essen is finally beginning to feel like home again. Some kind of home, at least – he’s passing more time at Jenny’s house than the loft, and Annette is still giving him her stink-face whenever she catches him attempting such aberrant behaviour as bathing and eating breakfast – but on the whole, life is returning to normal. And for nearly two weeks – save for that one encounter that _had_ been aberrant – his life has been blissfully Deniz-free. Until now.

“Thanks a lot, Ingo,” he grumps at the Centre bar over an overpriced Pils. By unspoken agreement they’ve taken to meeting here in the afternoons instead of at No. 7. Roman’s glad he never had to explain why, but still, he grimaces when Ingo signals for two more. He should never have offered to put it all on his tab. “Dodging a pack of kids who can’t stand up on the ice is going to do wonders for my training. Maybe I should work it into my freestyle routine?”

“Poor _Hase_ ,” Ingo smirks, not sorry at all. “Just think of them like the roses your adoring fans throw. You never have any trouble dodging those. And these kids are much softer, not even any thorns. The bones might get a bit crunchy, but nothing you can’t handle. It’ll be fine.”

“I need the whole rink, Ingo.” And really, he doesn’t, he’s shared many times before, and Ingo knows it. And as soon as he says it, he wishes he could take it back, because Ingo is getting that annoying perceptive look that Roman wishes to wipe away with more beer and distracting talk about Vegas kitsch or all the trouble Mike fell into during the tour. But no, Ingo has the intent expression of a terrier trained on a hare, ready to worry it to death.

“It wouldn’t be somebody else you’re dodging, would it?”

“Of course not.”

“No, I didn’t think so. Because even you wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“No.” Roman slides sulkily into his beer, resentment and confusion and just an irrepressible need to talk to someone battling for dominance. The latter wins, as it always does, and he sighs, “It’s just that…”

“Bunny, don’t start. You already know what I’m going to say. Deniz is bad news. He’s a nice enough kid on his own, but the two of you – he brings out the worst in you, and I know you know it.” Roman glares, but Ingo seems not to notice; he’s on a roll now, his teeth sinking into the subject to which, Roman suddenly realises, he’s apparently given a lot of thought. “He’s a confused teenager who doesn’t know his head from his arse half the time, and every time you get caught up in that you act as childish as he does. I know what he’s doing now with this rentboy stuff is stupid and reckless, but you’re just going to go in there guns blazing like you can _fix_ it, and you can’t. You’ll just end up with your head up your arse too, _again_ , and for what? So you can fall apart again?”

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Roman spits out once Ingo’s lecture draws to a close. And that isn’t quite the truth, he _had_ wanted Deniz to take a good look at what his new career choice meant, but there is no way he would ever share that memory with Ingo – with anybody. He still hasn’t worked out for himself how shame and anger and need have woven together so tightly, and even when he tries to tease out the threads they refuse to unravel. It isn’t just paying for sex, he knows – granted, he’d never done that before, but he could have lived with himself for it, even if it was stupid. But when he tugs at that thought more, when he realises that it was _Deniz_ who he’d flung his money towards, when he imagines Deniz on his knees in toilets and train stations and cheap hotels, any rational thought seems to abandon him. He hates that he was just one more in a long string of johns, but he hates even more that he still wanted that bitter lust they’d shared to somehow be special.

But he’d gotten out of there in one piece, which had been rather touch and go for awhile, and in the weeks since he’s tried desperately hard to forget it. And that's easier to do when Deniz isn’t around, which is the whole point. “There’s nothing _to_ fix, I know that, and I know he wouldn’t care what I had to say about it anyway. I’d just prefer not having to deal with him all the time.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Ingo agrees glumly, tipping back his bottle and draining it. His gaze doesn’t return to Roman, though, and after a fraction of a relieved second, Roman follows it across the bar to where Lena and Maximilian are engaged in heated conversation. The pained expression on Ingo’s face dispels the last tendrils of Roman’s indignation.

“More beer?” he offers by way of distraction, “and have I told you about the she-male Mike was hitting on in Berlin?”

*****

  
“Well, this oughta be fun,” Vanessa murmurs sarcastically, watching the newbies pick their way across the ice towards their side of the rink. Like Ingo said, there’s four of them, three boys and, surprisingly, a girl. Two of the boys have a promising build, at least: one stocky and broad, the other tall and wide-shouldered. The third boy and the girl are both quite skinny, and no older than sixteen. But that doesn’t have to mean anything, Deniz thinks, remembering his own first practice sessions here, and how he got wiped off the ice by a pudgy girl half his size. Despite his nervousness about this whole training thing, he has to fight a grin.

It quickly falls off his face when his gaze is drawn, inexorably, to the other side of the rink, where a lone figure in red is doing warm-up rounds. As he watches, one leg comes up slowly, Roman’s left arm reaching up and behind to curl his hand around his own ankle until his leg is stretched in a taut arch. With deceptive ease, his torso dips forward, balancing the weight of his raised leg as he flies across the ice on the impossibly thin edge of one blade.

“Deniz.” Vanessa elbows him in the side, and he flinches, guiltily tearing his gaze away. “What?” Vanessa is frowning at him. Her eyes briefly trail across the rink, finding with unerring certainty the object of his distraction. She doesn’t comment, but Deniz is all too aware of the sharpness of her uncomfortably perceptive gaze. “What?” he repeats defensively.

Vanessa rolls her eyes, then nods past him to where the rest of the team is milling near the boards. “I said, Karsten and Marco aren’t here – again. Did they say anything to you?”

Grateful for the safety of the topic, Deniz follows her gaze to see that indeed, only four of the team have shown up. He shakes his head. “I guess they figured why bother, since they’ll be gone by next week.”

Vanessa’s looking disgruntled. “If they think they can skip tryouts just because Ingo isn’t here, they’re wrong.” She shoves the folder with Ingo’s notes at Deniz’s chest so abruptly that he nearly drops it. “Get started with them, will you? I’ll see if I can reach Karsten or Marco.” She steps back behind the boards, reaching for her mobile that she’s deposited on the trainer’s bench, and Deniz is left to clutch the folder and turn towards the expectant faces of his team mates and the new candidates. From the other end of the rink, the scrape and slide of Roman’s skates tugs at his ears like a thin but annoyingly strong thread, seeking to snag his attention even as he studiously avoids looking. “Right,” he mutters, preparing to push off, but from out of nowhere, Mike appears in front of him, pulling up in a short, tight loop. His face is set in a sneer, but then it so often is. It’s hardly personal, Deniz tells himself.

Mike’s next words promptly prove him wrong.

“Why, Deniz, this is surprising. I didn’t think you’d have time for training hockey greenies, what with your busy professional life.” His lips part briefly and his tongue flickers out, waggling in blatant suggestion. “Sucked off anyone interesting lately?”

Deniz feels his blood freeze, as if the ice under his feet has suddenly liquefied and seeped into his veins from underneath. Involuntarily, his eyes flicker back to where Roman is looping elegantly into a figure eight, seemingly oblivious. Did he _tell_ Mike?

He wouldn’t, he tries to tell himself, hands clenching around the notes in his hands. Not something like this, and not Mike. Surely he wouldn’t. He and Mike are not even friends. He wouldn’t.

But Mike’s leer widens at his reaction, and suddenly the image is all too clear: Mike and Roman over beers at the bar, Mike sharing the story of his latest conquest and Roman throwing into the conversation, in a tone of pronounced disinterest, _Oh, you know who I had the other week? My ex. Would you believe it, but he made me pay, the little whore._

Suddenly the sound of blades scraping on ice seems magnified a hundredfold, scratching at his very nerves. Mike’s grinning face blurs as he back-skates a few paces, then slides forward again, his every move a taunt.

“Was there something you wanted, Mike?” Deniz hears himself say, above the amplified scratching sound in his ears. He suddenly feels like the very ice is tainted by that image, Roman confiding with a dismissive wave of his hand that, why yes, Deniz Öztürk did suck him off in the locker room, and really, for a professional he could use a bit more finesse.

Mike looks almost disappointed at his lack of a more aggressive reaction. He shrugs. “I want you to stick to your end of the rink, okay? I don’t have time to keep an eye out for those hazards on skates.”

“Mike!” Roman’s voice cuts across the ice as sharply as his blades, and Deniz can’t quite suppress a flinch. “I know it’s probably asking a bit much of a skating trainer, but could you kindly spare a second to pay attention?”

Mike grimaces and mutters something under his breath; then, with a last, scornful glance he’s off, leaving Deniz rattled and clutching his notes so hard he feels the paper crumple underneath his sweaty palms. For the first time in weeks, he feels the beginning tendrils of anger wrapping around the big, hard lump of contrition at his core, obscuring it as they pull tight. No matter how wrong or bitter their encounter in the locker rooms turned out in the end, somewhere in that muddled mess of spite and anger and hurt, there was something real, too, something that wasn’t dirty no matter what Roman chooses to believe, and Roman has no right to go spouting his mouth off about it to Mike Hartwig of all people. _You better not have,_ he thinks, fists clenching more tightly about the innocent notes in slowly mounting fury. _You fucking smug bastard, you better damnwell not have._

“Uhm, hello? Trainer?” It’s one of the newbies – the thin boy, waving awkwardly to gain his attention. “Is this _practical_ hockey tryouts, or are we gonna meditate and find our inner Wayne Gretzky? Just curious!”

Deniz shakes his head, wishing he could shake the images Mike’s taunts have painted, too. He pushes off the boards, heading for the gathered players; behind his back, the steady scrape and twist of Roman’s moves continue to leech his attention like small, needle-sharp pricks against the vulnerable patch of skin between his helmet and his jersey. Pulling up in front of the two small groups of seasoned players and unknowns, he resolutely straightens his shoulders and does his best to pretend the rink ends in the middle.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s start with the very basics, shall we? Anyone know how to skate?”

*****

Roman knows the instant Deniz steps onto the ice.

He wonders sometimes if he would have any better luck getting his ex out of his system if Deniz was only a smaller man. Someone whose presence doesn’t demand so much space, whose face isn’t visible head and shoulders above the crowd. No matter how Roman tries, when Deniz is around he can never seem to tear his eyes away. Even when he refuses to let them focus, as he does now, as he runs through his drills and banishes his thoughts with sheer physical motion, even now when all he sees from the corners of his eyes are blurry figures at the far end of the rink, he still knows unmistakeably which one is Deniz. He’s the one most solid, the one who stands with feet spread apart, who looks steady as a rock amidst bright flashes of colour.

“Roman!” Mike’s shout shakes him out of his thoughts. “Again. Keep your left hip tucked tight this time, you look terrible.”

Scowling, Roman begins again, focusing on his stance, on the subtle shifts of weight through a quick series of three-turns. The steps are easy enough, some of the very first he ever learned when he first put on his skates, but he feels sluggish, like something’s off – like his muscles are fighting with him instead of doing what they know how to do. It’s only to be expected – it’s been a long while since he had one of those nights with Ingo. He was so far gone when they crawled in after midnight that he hardly even noticed Annette’s resentful glare, hardly missed those calorie-laden feasts she’s always had waiting for them before.

Sluggishness, he tells himself, that’s all it is; he’s just taking a little longer than normal to warm up. He wonders whether Mike will notice, but then dismisses the thought – his trainer always has more criticism for a perfect performance than a flawed one. Sure enough, after a few minutes Mike calls out as much approval as he ever extends. “Okay, I guess that’s the best you can do. Let’s see your Rittbergers."

Lifting off from his outside edge takes a bit more concentration than usual, but finally his muscles seem to respond. He rolls from one loop jump to the next, feeling the warm burn in his calves as he bends, the exhilarating stretch in his back as he follows through. His shoulders check on cue, his skate edge crackles harsh on the ice, and for a few minutes everything feels right.

And then it all goes to hell.

He hears Vanessa scream, “Stop!” before he even sees what there is to stop for, but by then it’s too late. The kid is there, right there, his tiny round face looking wildly up at Roman … so close, too damn close, and so full of confusion and terror as Roman’s skate moves towards it in an unstoppable trajectory. Still in the air, there’s precious little that Roman can do other than tuck in his leg and hope, hope and pray, that the sharp metal will miss the boy’s face. It’s just a fraction of an inch but it’s all he has time for, and he hopes it’s enough.

It is.

The boy lies splayed on the ice, scared but unhurt. Roman, on the other hand, feels like a giant just pummelled him in the chest with humongous fists.

“Roman!”

Solicitous hands land on his shoulder and his hip. He feels them tense, senses their internal debate over whether to turn him or not. There’s a consideration in their touch that he hasn’t felt in far too long, something more personal than he’s used to these days, and he has the strangest desire to reassure them.

“I’m okay,” he says, and he really thinks he is. Sore as hell, and the wind knocked out of him, but if he can just manoeuvre his arm to push himself up…

“Deniz, don’t move him!”

Roman groans, and not just because he aches. Of _course_ it’d be Deniz who got to him first, Deniz who feels free to touch him at will because it means nothing to him, who feels like he has a _right_ to touch him even though those days are long gone, the door slammed shut and locked tight. He shakes off the hands like he’s sloughing out of his jacket, all the while pushing himself into a seated position. He looks up to see Mike staring down at him, to his credit, actually looking concerned. “I told you, I’m okay.”

*****

Feeling rebuffed and awkward, Deniz steps back, watching as Mike, despite Roman’s protests, pats him down, checking for hidden damage. His palms still tingle where he touched Roman, feeling damp skin and reassuringly solid bone beneath his shirt.

He makes a fist around the tingle, both to extinguish it and to steady his racing pulse. For a moment there, he literally felt his stomach drop as he saw Roman fall, heard the sickening crunch of impact. He doesn’t even remember crossing the ice.

Roman does seem fine, though, impatiently putting up with Mike’s fussing, and when Deniz hears Vanessa’s concerned voice and the stray comments from the team, he remembers that he has responsibilities here, and Roman isn’t one of them – or shouldn’t be. He turns abruptly, hoping he doesn’t look as shaken as he feels.

“Steady there. You were lucky.” Vanessa and the other girl are trying to help the thin kid – Nick, Deniz vaguely recalls from a round of introductions at the locker rooms – to his feet; a challenging task, since his skates keep comically sliding out from underneath him. She looks up briefly as Deniz joins them to grasp the boy under the arms, and together, they manage to haul him upright. “You okay?” Deniz asks, busying himself patting at the boy’s shoulders in order to avoid looking over to where Mike is helping Roman up.

Nick pulls off his helmet, revealing a shock of curly red hair; the face underneath is very white, but he is smiling, albeit shakily. “Yeah, fine. It was my own fault anyway – kinda got too far out there.”

“That was really dangerous,” the new girl says, frowning. She’s standing very close, her hand on Nick’s arm with evident concern. She, too, has removed her helmet, and though her short curls are brown, not red, there’s an obvious resemblance between their freckled faces that Nick confirms with his next words, impatiently shaking her off with a casual air usually reserved for friends or siblings. “Don’t fuss, Tascha, I’m fine. That looked amazing,” he continues, staring directly at Roman with an awed expression. “What kinda move was that?”

“Double Rittberger,” Deniz replies, unthinking. “Moving into a triple one when your face got in the way, you twit, and Vanessa’s right – you were lucky he didn’t slice your head off.”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t have gotten in the way if you’d been paying more attention to hockey and less to double Rittbergers,” Vanessa murmurs beside him. Mercifully, it’s pitched for his ears only, but Deniz shoots her a glare anyway. She returns it with a pointed, frank stare, and in the end, he’s the one to look away first. Because the hell of it is that she is right: He _was_ watching, for what he thought was no more than a second, the graceful loop of Roman’s jump, and not the unfortunate mid-rink progression of his would-be teammate. _Pull it together, man,_ he thinks angrily, trying to recall the relative safety of Mike’s leering taunt and his own mounting fury at Roman over it.

It helps, a little.

Nick grins, unruffled by the reproach, and brushes ice dust off his legs. “Yeah, well… thanks for that,” he says to Roman, who’s working his shoulder in short circles, grimacing at what must no doubt be substantial soreness. Before Deniz can stop him, Nick is hobbling across the ice, holding out his hand to an astonished Roman. “I’m Nick, by the way,” he declares, still beaming as if almost getting cut in half by a honed blade was an enormously fun adventure. “I, uh, don’t usually introduce myself by colliding with people in mid-air. And I’m not nearly as clumsy off the ice,” he adds hastily. Roman blinks, brows raised. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says finally, briefly shaking the boy’s hand. Nick’s grin, if possible, grows even wider, and Deniz feels a sharp little tug of irritation at the guileless awe in his face, and Roman’s bemused smile.

He sharply claps his hands. “All right, everyone, let’s get back to it!” he shouts, gathering the team around. For the next half hour, he tries to concentrate only on the task at hand as he and Vanessa take the team through drills, making sure everything stays firmly on their side of the rink. He doesn’t look towards the far side, never once; he so intently doesn’t look that he can feel the strain of it at the back of his head, like an impending migraine, but he doesn’t look.

“Well, _he’s_ not bad,” Vanessa remarks as they watch Tom, the tall, broad-shouldered newbie, successfully master a back-pass. “And that other guy – was it Axel or Alex?” She waves towards the stocky boy, and Deniz, consulting the notes, supplies, “Alex.”

Vanessa nods. “He’s strong, even though he has no clue about tactics.”

“We can teach him that,” Deniz says, unconcerned. “You did manage to teach _me_ , and you thought that was impossible.”

Vanessa snorts. “It was. You’re still about as subtle as a walrus.”

“Watch it, Turtle Girl.”

“Me? At least I know how to aim for the goal, not other people’s heads.”

He’s about to reach out and whack her with the rolled-up notes, but then stops suddenly, remembering – and when did he forget? – that this sort of easy companionship is lost to them, perhaps forever. You don’t get to have easy banter with the girl who had to learn from your ex-boyfriend that you were doing drugs and screwing around on her.

It’s strange, but when he thinks about missing Vanessa, he doesn’t always think about the tense, confusing few months when she was his girlfriend. These days, he often finds himself missing the time before that, when she was the best friend that he’s ever had; the person who could take one look at him and tell him exactly what his problem was, and then what to do about it, all the while making it sound like he was the world’s biggest dope but never once in a way that actually made him angry.

He doesn’t know what goes through Vanessa’s head, but judging from her dismayed look, it might be something similar. She clears her throat, brow wrinkling. “Deniz, I know I came down kinda harsh on you the other week, but – about that thing you do. Your job. I think-”

“I’m not doing it anymore,” he interrupts her quickly, and it comes as much as a surprise to him as it obviously does to her. “I, uh. I stopped.”

He half expects a jab, or at least some caustic remark along the lines of _and why would you think I care?_ , but Vanessa surprises him. She says nothing for a long time, though he can tell she’s looking at him sideways. “Good for you,” she says eventually, no more; and then she grabs the notes from his hands to scribble something about defence next to Tom’s name, and “TACTIC!” next to Alex’s.

“Nick and Natascha are atrocious, though,” she says to the papers in her hands, and Deniz, feeling oddly relieved, barks a laugh.

“No kidding. But Ingo wanted someone for the substitutes’ bench, so that’s where they can stay for now, until they’ve learned not to be a hazard.”

“Speak of the devil,” Vanessa says. Following the direction of her gaze, Deniz sees Ingo stepping down onto the ice, making exaggerated flailing motions and holding his head in mock horror, pointing at the team. Vanessa sighs audibly. “When he hears about what happened with Roman, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Yeah,” Deniz says distractedly; behind Ingo, he’s spotted Roman and Mike standing at the boards, deep in conversation. As he watches, Mike nods, gives Roman a pat on the shoulder, and steps off the ice. Left alone, Roman turns suddenly, as if sensing his attention. Their eyes meet, Roman’s expression unreadable. It’s the face he usually wears when on the ice, Deniz thinks: a mask, cool and full of concentration, that only slips into a smile after a performance well-rendered, or when he’s borne backwards down on the ice with kisses. He banishes the memory, or tries to.

“Can you brief Ingo?” he asks, without thinking. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s off before Vanessa can voice either objection or consent, Ingo and his _huh?_ expression whizzing by in a blur, and pulls up short next to Roman at the boards.

“Hey.” Roman says nothing, looking up at him with a frown, and Deniz finds, like so often in Roman’s presence, lost for the right thing to say. It doesn’t help that he came over here with no idea what to do once he got here.

“Sorry about Nick,” he offers at last, lamely. Almost against his will, his eyes flicker up and down Roman’s body, registering bits of frost clinging to his clothes where he fell, but no awkward movement that would indicate injury. “Are you really all right?”

  
*****

 _Sorry..._ Sometimes Roman thinks that if he’d gotten a euro for every time Deniz has said that to him, he’d be able to retire in luxury. He’s heard it in every context imaginable: when Deniz was laid bare with guilt, when he felt true remorse, when he was caught in the jaws of the most blatant lie. At one time Roman had worried himself almost to death trying to read the nuances, needing to know which version of _sorry_ this one was. At one time he’d actually gotten rather good at it. Nowadays he doesn’t bother. The word’s grown meaningless through overuse, like salt poured too liberally over his food. Roman suspects that Deniz no longer even tastes its bite on his tongue, just sprinkles it freely over any situation he’s gotten into. It’s nothing more than a convenient way to assuage his guilt. It changes nothing.

But the other, the question … there’s something there, solicitous and just a little uncertain, that gives Roman pause. If he didn’t know better ( _if this wasn’t Deniz,_ he corrects himself) he might believe it was an earnest concern. But as it is, he rolls the question over in his mind first, inspecting each seemingly normal word for hidden mines. He can’t be too careful; these things have blown up in his face too many times before.

Try as he might, though, he doesn’t detect any subterfuge. Which leads him to a preposterous conclusion: Deniz is being _nice_? It’s a quality he hardly associates with his ex anymore. _And with good reason,_ he reminds himself. Every emotion Deniz offers has a going price, he has to remember that. He has to remember that he’ll be paying one way or another.

 _Like you did last time,_ he reminds himself, _not the first time you’ve paid, but definitely the most direct._ The thought drags up an uncomfortable mixture of shame and lust as he remembers how Deniz looked on his knees, with his lips swollen and red. Not Roman’s proudest moment, and not one he wants to let himself think of now, not with Deniz standing in front of him, with the hockey team just metres away.

He shoves it down, shrugs it off, and answers with a guarded voice, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

That should be it; Deniz should turn and skate off now. He shouldn’t still be standing there, darting his dark eyes up and down Roman’s body like he’s sure an arm is about to fall off. “It was a pretty bad fall. Maybe you should get checked out by Oliver.” he suggests, and his eyes return to Roman’s face, searching it intently like he’s the one trying to detect a lie this time. “It’s just that you came down hard on your bad leg.”

Roman hates that Deniz would think of that, the same thing that he had thought as he was flying through the air and unable to stop. Deniz shouldn’t notice things like that. He shouldn’t let himself.

And this, Roman realises, is where he and Deniz differ more than anywhere else. Roman’s spent a lifetime focused on self-preservation. It wasn’t just being gay, although that surely contributed. Being smaller than the rest, caring more about skating than hockey or football, being more quick-witted than the playground bullies – all had been reasons for him to need protection. When he discovered that nobody else was going to give it to him, he’d set out to find it himself. He remembers telling Deniz once that he’s not going to pretend to be someone else, just to stay out of the way of bullies like Bulle. What he hadn’t told Deniz, what he’s never told anyone, is that he still does what he can to keep from being obliterated. It’s not pretending to be someone else, it’s just who he’s become after years of building the wall he needs. He keeps out those who would destroy him, and he would never let himself look to the other side to notice something like that.

Deniz is just the opposite. From that very first day when he lumbered across the parking lot and into Roman’s life, he’s held himself open to the world. He doesn’t have walls; he dares life to take its best swing. It is an innocence that Roman envies, that he’s drawn to like a moth to a lamplight, even if he could never hope to emulate it. Deniz knows himself loved; at the very least, he considers himself worth loving. Even his lies are a part of that; his charm is so irresistible that even betrayal can’t dim it.

Roman hates, _hates_ , that he’s right.

If Deniz would just put up a wall like Roman’s, then they could so easily co-exist in this place. Then he wouldn’t notice what kind of jump Roman was attempting or suspect how badly his leg aches right now. Then they could share the same ice without crashing together, they could see each other in the same restaurants, they could change in the same locker rooms without… and Roman shakes that thought away before it can even materialise. Instead, he thinks, Deniz leaves himself open, vulnerable, far too innocent and trusting to be working in his line of business.

And Roman _really_ hates that this thought makes his heart heavy, thinking of what Deniz has gotten himself into.

He can’t feel this way. Maybe Deniz can pretend they can just be friends, like nothing’s ever happened between them. For Roman, who falls in love rarely but hard, and who takes the rest of his life to recover from its reverberations, this is too dangerous. He’s worked too hard at stacking up bricks and mortaring them tight, keeping out any shred of compassion for someone who will just inevitably shatter his rebuilt heart. They’re stronger than to start crumbling in the face of a little earnest concern and attention to his skating.

“I should go,” he says suddenly, stepping off the ice.

“Yeah,” agrees Deniz, “I need to get back.”

But he doesn’t skate away. For just a second he holds Roman’s gaze with a look so genuine that Roman can’t bring himself to examine it for lies.

Later, he’ll let himself think about how pathetic this is. Now, he hardly recognises his voice when he asks, incredulous and surely sounding exceedingly random, “You really knew that was a Triple Rittberger?”

“Yeah, well you hadn’t unhooked your leg for landing,” Deniz shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He looks like Roman has just asked him if he knows how to tie his shoes, not that he had just picked up on a nuance that even his trainer misses half the time. It’s strangely flattering, in a disturbing way, and Roman’s not quite sure what to do with it. The thought wings its way through his head like a swallow arcing upwards, higher and higher. Roman knows his walls are tall and firm, but now wonders if he’ll have to build them higher. He worries that with a stray current of wind something might sail over the top.

He’s almost surprised to hear Deniz’s voice again. “See you around then?”

“See you.” He answers, feeling far away. Deniz spins on his heel and Roman watches him skate away.


	4. Interlude 2: Roman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no place like home, even if home's a joke these days.

“Looking good,” says Oliver, giving Roman a pat on the shin as he stands up. “You’ve got a gorgeous bruise coming up, but that’s to be expected. Take it easy for a couple days, and you’ll be fine. -You’ve really got to stop doing this, though,” he adds sternly over his shoulder, digging through his medicine cupboard. “Next time, do try and fall on the other leg, okay? I think that one’s taken quite enough abuse.”

“It’s not like I do it on purpose,” Roman grumbles as he pulls up his jeans; but he’s too relieved to muster any sort of actual indignation. He hates these moments when the old injury comes back to haunt him – when from one second to the next, he goes from being certain that there’s at least one thing that’s all his, one thing that no one can take from him, the thing that makes him feel more himself than anything else in the world, to suddenly having even that in doubt, insidiously shaken by the betrayal his own body practises on him. It’s the sly stranger in the back of his mind, the voice that sometimes whispers, _Perhaps you’re getting too old for this_ , or _They won’t applaud forever, you know_. Usually he’s pretty good at shutting it out, well-versed as he is at the art of psychological defence, even against himself. But when his own muscle and tendon conspire with that corrosive voice, it gets harder to resist; harder not to hear that secret, smooth purr of _See, you’re not that special_ and _One of these days, you might not be coming back_.

Not this day, though, he tells himself firmly, straightening his shoulders as he slides off the examination table. This day, he’s just fine, and has no enemies but those of mind and memory. And really, it was just good sense to have Oliver take a look at his knee. It’s got nothing to do with Deniz suggesting it, just like Deniz had no business expressing concern – or the semblance thereof – in the first place. Roman would have done it anyway.

“Here.” Oliver hands him a salve. “To cool it a bit. If you have any trouble, come to see me, all right? -Oh hi, Vanessa, come on in!”

“Sorry, didn’t realise we still had patients.” Vanessa’s voice from the door sounds hesitant, and Roman automatically grabs for his pants, before he realises he’s already pulled them up. It takes him a long, blank moment of puzzlement to see Vanessa standing there in a white lab coat, before he vaguely remembers that Ingo mentioned she was doing an internship with Oliver.

“Uhm. Hi.”

“Hi Roman. How are you doing?” Vanessa asks, closing the door behind her and shoving her hands into her white coat with a little more force than necessary. “That fall looked like it hurt. You alright?” Her fine brows are drawn together as if it costs her great concentration to ask this simple question. Underneath her pigtails dangle long earrings made of tiny, glittering black teardrops.

In secret and from afar, Roman used to look at her, desperately wondering, _What is it that you have, and I do not?_

The answer is, of course, “everything”: the reckless unconcern of the very young and a heart that’s whole and free and generous, relatively unscalded yet by previous experience. An easiness to be with, sassy and no-nonsense and not demanding all too much. And there’s her smooth-cheeked, full-lipped face and her soft girl’s body, too, heavy with curves that probably mould themselves around a body much easier than his own sharp, unyielding angles. Just as it should be.

There never was a way to compete with Vanessa. She’s what he’s not; it is that simple.

“Yeah, fine,” Roman replies, somewhat perplexed. The oddest people are inquiring after his well-being tonight. Vanessa nods, murmuring, “That’s good,” but her eyes are already sliding past him, to Oliver who’s locking up the medicine cabinet and typing something on his laptop.

Roman lingers awkwardly for a moment, then clears his throat. “Okay, well – thanks, Oliver. Night, Vanessa.”

“Night, Roman,” Oliver nods, and “Bye,” Vanessa murmurs absently, stepping aside so he can pass. She looks up in time to give him a quick, uncharacteristically fake smile, and Roman frowns, wondering for a moment just what strange kind of undercurrent he’s stepped into. Then he decides it’s really nothing he wants to decipher, and leaves.

***

It’s begun to snow softly, the first proper snow Essen has seen this year. Roman knows from experience that it probably won’t stick; if anything, by tomorrow the city will be all over slush, grey and wet and unpleasant. For now, it’s nice, though; the flakes soft and cool on his overheated face. They feel like chilled cotton candy on his skin, so much gentler than ice that it seems funny to think they’re made of the same element. He tilts his head back, blinking into the darkness above, tiny flakes of white appearing out of nowhere. It’ll be Christmas soon, he realises, but the thought makes him draw up his shoulders as if against a sudden gust of cold wind.

Against his better judgement, he remembers Christmas last year: no power, no hot showers, and everyone swathed in sixteen layers of clothing to keep warm; their hearts still sore from Julian’s death and Diana’s constant, quiet grief; the looming threat of losing their homes or jobs or both. Still, they had a different sort of warmth connecting them, then, held safely in their close-meshed web of mutual support and love – a web stronger than family, more loyal than blood. He remembers singing at the loft, and dashing arm in arm through the freezing air to the bright lights of No. 7; the strong, sweet smell of Nadja’s mulled wine and Deniz’s wide smile brightening his face when he saw Roman come in. He was waving a stick with a marshmallow stuck to the end, Roman remembers, and looked for all the world like an excited puppy having mastered a new trick.

The pain is brief, but not unexpected, and would be quenched easily enough were it just Deniz. Deniz-related pain he has learned to treat like the occasional twinge in his knee: he knows it’s there, knows it will probably always resurface at some time or other, but he can deal with it. It’s just every now and then that it comes close to actually worrying him, when it catches him unprepared, triggered by some small occurrence: a jump, a wrong move, a seemingly innocent question - _“Are you really all right?”_ \- and then he has to work at it a bit, breathe through the pain, pull his defences tighter, and he will be fine.

It isn’t just Deniz, though. There’s too much of a discrepancy between last year’s Christmas and the one this one is shaping up to be; too much of that bond of companionship broken. The thought of this year’s Christmas, of awkwardly trying to make a space for himself in between Annette’s resentment and Ingo’s clumsy facilitating while Lena stares glumly at her growing bump and Celine attempts to make cheerful conversation and Maximilian glowers at her side, fills him with nothing less than dread. It’s enough to seriously make him consider the alternative: a cramped thirty-plus hour flight to Australia, Christmas at the beach, his mother’s gingersnap biscuits, tanned men with bright smiles. It sounds tempting for only a moment, until he remembers that his father will be well into his fifth drink halfway through Christmas Eve and will start up the needling about “that daft business hopping about on ice”; isn’t he getting too old for that anyway, and when is he going to get a proper job? Meanwhile, his mother, in that forced, cheerful way she has, will ask, “Whatever happened to that Turkish feller, dear, did that one run out on you, too? You can’t trust foreigners, you know.”

Roman grimaces, and Australia shrinks rapidly in his mind. Its bright promise pulls away like a rubber band snapping back, and it becomes the unreal place on the other side of the world again, just a red-orange spot on the map instead of a possible refuge.

No. Better the devil ye ken, as they say. At least with his friends ( _“flatmates”_ , corrects Jenny’s scornful voice in his head), he knows what he’s in for. There’s no place like home, even if home’s a joke these days.

He sometimes wonders whether it might be an unhealthy dependency on other people that makes him feel the edge of loneliness so keenly; whether he might not be a happier person if he did not care so much, did not need so badly to be appreciated, teased, adored. It’s a moot question, though, if for no other reason than that he doesn’t believe in compromising his nature, even to make life easier on himself. He can’t help craving the regard of others any more than he can help being short, or physically incapable of keeping his mouth shut even when silence would be prudent.

The wind is picking up, and so is the snow. Roman tugs his scarf up a bit to cover his mouth and nose, hunches his shoulders forward, and pushes on.


	5. Dump and Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes out, such as it is.

_Dump and Chase: An offensive strategy in which a player shoots (or “dumps”) the puck into the attacking zone and aggressively pursues it in hopes of retrieving possession and setting up a scoring chance._

  
Deniz has never been so grateful for hockey. He doesn’t think he could have made it through December without it. Not with his father still following his every move with the patented Marian Öztürk frown, a mixture of suspicion and weariness, like he’s just waiting for Deniz to screw up again; not with the days stretching out alarmingly empty ahead of him. Not with this feeling of discontent, vague but unpleasant, that seems to penetrate everything else he touches these days.

A few times he’s noticed that his mobile’s been moved around at home. Deniz suspects that Marian checks it for calls from clients. It pisses him off no small amount, and somewhere down the line, he knows a massive fight is just waiting to happen. For the moment, though, he’s still reluctant to breach their strained truce, even if the mistrust stings more than he expected, so he pretends he doesn’t notice.

Hockey, then. The rink, his gear, the clash and duck around his team mates, and the little black disc speeding across the ice ahead of him have become a refuge more than ever before. Even his apprehension about having to share the rink with the skaters is starting to wane a bit with practice. It’s a more frequent occurrence now that the skaters’ training schedules are getting more rigorous in preparation for the upcoming European Championships. Between their intensified training sessions and the reforming hockey team, there’s an air of renewed energy about the rink these days, and Deniz throws himself into it gladly, relieved to escape the stale air of disappointment at home. He hunts the puck across the ice with renewed fervour, perfecting his dodging technique and putting the goal away so neatly that even Ingo feels compelled to pat him on the back and say, “Alright, kiddo, don’t set the rink on fire, okay? Well done.”

Hockey’s a direct game, by and large. There are feints and strategies, to be sure; there are dodges and passes and coordination, but there’s never a doubt about what your purpose is or where you’re supposed to be at any given time. The rules are definitive and the objective is simple; it doesn’t call for slyness or grace or elaborate planning. Roman used to tease him about it, calling it “an exercise in generic bludgeoning” or “a testosterone-poisoned bashfest” and saying that they might as well stand six guys on a line and rate them on who can piss the farthest. He’s probably got a point, but Deniz loves it anyway, or perhaps because of that. There’s a straightforwardness about it that appeals to his blunt nature: score a goal, protect your team mates, eliminate the opponent. He likes the uncompromising focus, the simplicity of physical challenge and answer, the sometimes brutal directness that demands concentration, but no finesse. In hockey, you win or you lose; the ice knows no shades of grey.

Unexpectedly, the team seems to have benefited from the influx of new blood. Since Karsten and Marco left and the four newbies have stepped up to take their place, they’ve been playing more energetically, if not necessarily better. True, there’s a lot of falling and crashing going on, and Ingo dramatically bashes his head against his clipboard a lot, but there’s a certain good humour about it, and everyone seems more eager to get them back into shape.

“I cannot _believe_ the amount of free slave labour Ingo is getting out of us,” Vanessa grumbles late one afternoon as they sit in the lounge, scribbling down training tips Ingo fired at them earlier when he cheerfully told them that they’ll have to take over yet another training session. “If I’d inherited even the tiniest scrap of my parents’ business savvy, I’d be bleeding him dry for this.”

“No kidding.” Deniz runs a hand through his damp hair, sprawling back in his chair. “What’s with all the sudden extra aqua courses, anyway? We’re doing like half of the hockey training now.”

“It’s my parents.” At his raised brows, she sighs. “Isn’t it always my parents?”

“What now?” Deniz asks warily, all too aware that even though he’s glad that they’re talking semi-normally again, these aren’t grounds he wants to tread. Vanessa’s struggle with her parents is an eternal battle, and anyone who tries to get in the middle will be ground to fine powder one way or the other.

“They’re putting their eggs into several baskets, or so they say.”

At Deniz’s blank look, Vanessa shrugs. “The skating team isn’t doing so great these days. Jenny’s still struggling to rehabilitate herself after the doping ban, Diana’s always on tour, and Roman hasn’t even qualified for the Europeans yet.”

“He hasn’t?” Deniz blurts out.

Vanessa gives him a strange look. “No. You didn’t know? After his crap run at the German Championships, it’s still up in the air.”

“Oh.” Deniz involuntarily glances across the lounge to where Roman is sitting at the bar with Mike, heads close together over drinks and some training schedule or other. It’s been almost a month now since That Thing That Happened, and there’s been so much unavoidable sharing of the rink and passing each other in hallways that Deniz is starting to find it a little easier not to cringe whenever he runs into Roman. Not that it’s comfortable, exactly, but at least he doesn’t feel the need to duck and run anymore.

It would be even easier if it wasn’t for Mike. Mike who even now lifts his head to gesture for another drink, catches Deniz’s eye across the room, and smirks knowingly. Deniz has tried to scour the image of Roman casually sharing the locker room incident with Mike from his brain. He’s tried to tell himself he doesn’t even know for sure if Roman told him; has tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t be that callous. But the image sticks around stubbornly, and that is something that _hasn’t_ become easier. Every time he sees them in conversation, he can’t help wondering, and every time, rationally or not, it makes him seethe.

 _Sucked off anyone interesting lately?_

Fucking _Mike_.

Even so, Vanessa’s news about Roman’s uncertain status in the Europeans makes Deniz’s stomach twist a little in sympathy. He knows – better than most, he sometimes thinks – how much Roman thrives on competition, on public notice, the attention of an excited crowd. To be denied that, judged by one bad performance…

“…so my parents decided they’d branch out a bit and get a team of professional mud-wrestlers on board. And maybe some circus artists. With elephants.”

Deniz wrenches his head back around to find Vanessa regarding him with plain annoyance. “Huh?”

She jerks her head in a vigorous nod. “Elephants. They’ll do synchronised pooping.”

“What are you talking about?” Deniz demands.

Instead of replying, Vanessa looks past him to the bar, following the line of his earlier gaze. When she looks back at him, she fixes him with a frank stare that’s all too knowing.  
“What the hell is going on with you?” she demands.

Deniz shuffles the papers on the table between them to avoid her eyes. “What do you mean?”

She makes a disgusted noise and leans back in her chair, jamming her pen behind her ear. “Dude, I know we’re not exactly in each other’s confidence these days, but please credit me with a few basic skills of observation, like _not being blind_. You’ve been staring at Roman like a kicked puppy for the last few weeks now, and-“

“I have not!”

Vanessa wipes his protest away with a brusque gesture. “You _have_. You stare at him on the rink, at the boards, at the bar, in the pool, in the lounge, and anywhere else that’s remotely within staring distance. It’s not like I give a crap, exactly, but it does kind of vex when I’m trying to talk to you and you’re too busy counting hairs on your ex’s head or something, so again I say – what the hell’s going on?”

Deniz traces the wicker pattern on the edge of the table. It’s fascinating, really, all those individual strands woven together. “I don’t know. I mean, nothing.”

There’s a long silence from across the table. Over at the bar, Deniz can hear Mike laughing. The sound grates in his ears like someone’s rubbing bits of sandpaper against them. Finally, Vanessa clears her throat. “Uhm, Deniz. Has anyone ever told you how much of a moron you are, like, most of the time? Anyone apart from me, that is?”

Deniz glares at her, but she merely cocks her head at him inquisitively. She never could be easily intimidated; it’s one of the few things she and Roman have in common. He’s the first one to look away. “It’s none of your business, Vanessa,” he says, but quietly, and she doesn’t blow up at him as she used to when he tried to shut her out. From the corner of his eye, he catches the motion of a shrug.

“No, I guess it’s not. Just, it’d be nice if whatever phenomenally stupid thing you’re getting yourself wrapped up in, you could not get wrapped up in while we’re training or while I’m trying to tell you something, especially if it was you who asked in the first place, okay?”

Deniz supposes he should be offended but he can’t suppress a certain grudging amusement; he can feel it trying to tug his mouth into a grin. “Okay, fine. What are your parents doing hiring elephants?”

Vanessa looks as if she’d like to pursue the topic against her better judgement, but after a moment she shrugs again. “They’re focusing more on their other assets besides the skaters. That’s why Ingo and Lena have been getting extra courses, and why they’re so keen on getting the hockey team back into shape. They’re hoping to go professional with it.”

“Professional?” Deniz thinks back on the practice session they’ve just had this afternoon – Alex barrelling across the ice like a rogue cannonball, Tom nearly breaking little Natascha’s shoulder and the older team members complaining vocally about Nick, who’s constantly underfoot. “They must be desperate.”

Vanessa snorts. “You know my parents. They get a whiff of profit and go sniffing after it, however unlikely. Besides, _some_ of us are good.”

Deniz isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a compliment, and doesn’t ask, still not sure what he thinks of the Steinkamps’ newest scheme. It makes sense in a way, he supposes. Professional hockey isn’t big in Essen, and the Steinkamps have a knack for these things. Still, it seems a preposterous ambition, and something about it doesn’t sit quite right. Deniz’s eyes fall on the scattered notes and the mess that is the training schedule for January, and he reaches for another pen, sighing. “If they’re aiming for professional hockey, they should keep their professional hockey coach free for it,” he grumbles. “This is gonna take us ages.”

“Mhm. Are you working tonight?”

“No – apparently there’s some big storm coming, so Dad’s closing early. Why?”

“Goody,” Vanessa says, looking relieved. “I’ve got some schoolwork I have to catch up on. You can sort out the training schedule by yourself, right?”

Deniz frowns at her. “You’ve been catching up on a lot of schoolwork lately.”

Vanessa makes a face at him, already gathering up her purse and gear bag. “Yeah well, it’s for finals. Some people are still planning on graduating.”

“That was a low blow,” Deniz complains, but Vanessa doesn’t show the slightest sign of contrition.

“Was it? I dunno. If you throw over school for the glamorous lifestyle of model turned escort turned… whatever you are right now, you’ll have to be prepared for lower blows than that. No offence,” she adds, worming into her thick, hooded jacket.

“Watch it,” Deniz warns. “You just dumped the entire training schedule on me.”

“And I’m sure you’ll do a great job of it,” Vanessa murmurs distractedly as she digs through her purse for her beeping mobile. Her face darkens when she checks the screen. “Crap. Oliver needs me, gotta go. Have fun with the schedule.”

“Oh, loads, I’m sure,” grouches Deniz. She waves at him vaguely, already turning to leave; after a couple of steps, she pauses, though, casts another look at the duo at the bar, then looks over her shoulder at Deniz. Her face has gone serious, a vertical line between her brows.

“A word of advice, not that you’ll listen,” she says abruptly. “And this time I’m not even trying to be mean. Anyone who has the dubitable pleasure of being your ex… is going to be smart enough to keep it that way. Especially someone you’ve ripped into shreds and stomped into the dirt – repeatedly.” Her pretty mouth twists into a rather unpretty grimace. “I should know.”

She’s gone before he can muster a reply, leaving him sitting in his wicker chair feeling like someone’s just tossed a glass of cold water in his face. It’s a state that’s become way too much of a staple for comfort. Somewhere above him, a window rattles as the wind picks up outside, gathering into the threatened storm. Cold air pushes through the window frame with a high-pitched howl, a sound both whiny and agonised. Deniz can relate.

***

“All I’m saying, Roman, is that you may have to do without the Salchow/Rittberger combination,” Mike says, swirling his gin and tonic around his glass with what Roman is sure must be deliberate cruelty. He glumly stares down at his own water with lemon. It’s that time of year again. No alcohol until after the championships. No excessive carbs. Definitely no fries, not that Annette would make those for him these days anyway. And all this for something he might not even get to do, if the Skating Association decides that someone who placed a laughable sixteenth at the Germans is not really someone they want to see at the Europeans.

He shoves his glass away with enough force to spill a little. “I need that combination,” he says shortly. “After that disaster in September, I’ll need something that’ll knock the judges off their feet if I want to stand any chance of a decent placement.”

Mike coughs. “Well, the only one it may knock off your feet will be yourself, at this rate. How many times did you fall today? Eight?”

Roman picks listlessly at his half-eaten whole wheat sandwich. “Four.”

“Hmm.” Mike scratches at his stubbly chin. “At any rate, if you really want the combination in your program, you’ll have to do better.”

“Funnily enough, I’m trying,” Roman snaps, pushing the leftover sandwich away as well. “It might help if my trainer occasionally watched what I was doing rather than spend half the time on the phone.”

“It was important, okay? Lena’s at the hospital.”

“What?” Roman looks up, alarmed. “Something wrong with the baby?”

“Probably not, but she had cramps and Marian was worried so he brought her in. They’re keeping her overnight, just to keep an eye on her. Ingo’s on his way over there, and Annette’s already there. She’s the one who called me.”

And didn’t think it worth calling _him_ , obviously. Roman bites his lip. It’s ridiculous how much it hurts that she wouldn’t even call him for something like this.

“Hey,” says Mike, awkwardly nudging his shoulder. “She probably thought I’d tell you and that was enough.” Roman nods, not particularly comforted by Mike’s rare moment of insight. “Anyway, I was about to head over there before the weather gets too bad,” Mike continues. “Wanna come with?”

Roman hesitates, torn between worry for Lena and reluctance at the thought of Annette glaring daggers at him across a hospital bed. In the end, he shakes his head, grabbing up his bag as he slides off the bar stool. “No, I think I’ll hit the ice for some extra training.”

Mike frowns, checking his watch. “Now? It’s nearly seven.”

“Just for a bit. You’ve said it yourself – if I want the combo, I’ve got to work on it. Call me if there’s any news about Lena, though, okay?”

“Okay. Hang on, I’m leaving too.”

  
As they walk towards the stairs, Mike nudges him again and nods towards the lounge. “Looks like someone else has been working overtime,” he grins. Following his gaze, Roman catches sight of Deniz in one of the wicker chairs. Immediately he feels tension tingling down his back, straightening his spine; that extra lock of self-protection snapping into place as it always does these days whenever Deniz is around. If ever he wants something to improve his posture during training, all he probably needs is a big cardboard cut-out of Deniz in front of him. Hell, the Steinkamps probably even still have one lying around somewhere, from Deniz’s modelling days.

A clipboard and colour-coded papers lie scattered on the table in front of Deniz. Deniz himself is sprawling in the chair, head laid back and eyes closed; the position looks oddly vulnerable, exposing the long line of his neck and the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple. Roman drags his gaze away and shrugs. “There’s been a lot of extra hockey sessions lately. He and Vanessa are helping Ingo out.” In truth, he _has_ been wondering a bit – though without wanting to – how Deniz manages to arrange all this extra time spent at the Centre around his other commitments; but he figures prostitution is by nature more of a night-time occupation. It would certainly explain Deniz’s current exhausted slump.

 _Besides_ , the cynical part of him reminds him, _he’s managed to find someone stupid enough to pay him inside the Centre, hasn’t he? Now that’s what I call convenient._ He grits his teeth and walks on determinedly. Since Deniz’s awkward inquiry on the ice, things have defused somewhat between them, to the point where they can say hi and share a rink without the tension being too distracting, but that doesn’t mean that Roman’s keen on interaction.

Mike, unfortunately, has other ideas. He slows down, a sly grin spreading across his features, and takes a few steps towards the table. “Hey, Deniz!” he says loudly, with fake joviality. “Looking a bit peaky there, aren’t you? You might wanna watch that – surely the clients aren’t too keen on the overworked look.”

Deniz’s eyes fly open at Mike’s greeting, and his long legs scramble to bring him into an upright position in his chair. He blinks up at them, and Roman hates how familiar he still is with all the little nuances in Deniz’s expressions: shifting from disoriented confusion to wariness when he sees Mike and Roman, and then immediately to anger when Mike’s taunt sinks in.

“What the hell do you want now?” he growls.

Mike smirks. “Aw, c’mon, you’re not ashamed of your job, are you? No reason to! Oldest profession in the world!”

“Mike,” Roman murmurs, “come on.” Disgusted as he is himself with Deniz’s little sleaze career, Mike’s obvious delight in needling him about it doesn’t make it any better. Worse, if anything, since it never fails to remind him of the incident in the locker room and his own far from noble role in it.

“What?” Mike asks, feigning innocence. “Just curious! Oh, I meant to ask you, Deniz – do you ever get to, uhm, service any celebrities? Anyone I’d know? Or, hey-“ He leans forward and continues in a conspiratorial whisper, “Ever got hired by someone _here_? Since you are kinda parading the goods around the pool and all. I mean, that’s a prime advertising opportunity, I’m sure.”

Roman makes a mental note to tell Mike later that he was asking for it if he gets socked within the next five seconds. Deniz has flushed an alarming shade of crimson. Roman wonders if given enough whoring, he’ll lose that propensity for blushing, and feels annoyed at the twinge of sick regret following the thought. None of his business, he reminds himself firmly. Deniz’s hands have curled into fists atop his armrests. He’s visibly fuming, not that Roman’s surprised. If there’s one thing that Mike excels at, it’s riling people up.

What he isn’t prepared for, though, is Deniz sliding his gaze from Mike to him with so much naked fury in his dark eyes that Roman almost takes a step back. “ _Fuck you,_ ” Deniz says, very softly but vehemently. It’s like Mike isn’t even there.

Roman frowns, but before he can say anything – or ask what the hell _he_ has done to deserve this sudden vitriol – Mike laughs and steps back. “Doubt we could afford your rates, even if we were interested. Anyway, it’s been fun to chat, but I gotta dash. Coming, Roman?”

Roman nods, somewhat relieved. With a last glance at Deniz – still coiled in his chair like a cornered animal preparing to attack, and still glaring black fire at Roman – he turns away.

***

Silently boiling with rage, Deniz stares after them, watching as they part ways at the stairs. Mike even looks back at him once and grins, giving him an ironic little wave. Roman is still frowning, looking none too pleased, but Deniz is too furious to wonder why, or to recapture his earlier moment of sympathy. He _did_ tell Mike, the bastard. Maybe not even only Mike. Hell, maybe the entire Centre knows what happened between him and Roman by now, and everyone else is just too embarrassed or decent to blab about it. You can always rely on Mike Hartwig, of course. Even more than a year later, Deniz still has not forgotten the crude jokes Mike used to make when he and Roman first got together, or all the disparaging remarks dropped at No. 7’s counter, trying to rile up his father. It makes this betrayal sting even more, the fact that Roman would share their ill-advised encounter with someone against whom they once stood solidly united.

As Mike makes for the main doors and Roman disappears down the stairs, Deniz tears his eyes away, hands aimlessly shuffling the papers before him. For long minutes, he tries to concentrate on his task, but it’s no use. Every stray laugh or scrap of conversation from the few people still hanging around the pool scratches at his nerves, and the coloured notes keep blurring into meaningless shapes before his eyes. Try as he might, he can’t get Mike’s sneer out of his mind, or Roman’s expression of uncomfortable reserve.

Oh, he _better_ be uncomfortable. In fact…

Deniz is on his feet before he’s made a conscious decision, and once he’s up, he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. Leaving his bag and his papers behind, he hurries past the pool in long, angry strides, nearly slipping on the wet tile. He takes the stairs two at a time, and by the time he’s reached the corridor leading to the ice rink, he’s nearly running.

  
Hauling open the steel door to the rink, Deniz immediately spots Roman on the outside of the boards. He stands out from about a mile away, wearing a bright turquoise hoodie that should by all laws of fashion and good sense look completely ridiculous, but somehow doesn’t. The hood – what is that anyway, _velvet?_ – drops forward against the back of his head as he bends over to take the blade guards off his skates. He looks up, startled, when he sees Deniz storming towards him through the stands. Immediately, his face goes blank, the familiar mask coming down like a specific anti-Deniz filter that closes seamlessly, denying him any glimpse at what lies beneath.

Deniz is so sick of that mask – so sick of having even the mere sight of Roman’s infinitely variable expressions, so natural and swift-changing, snatched away from him like they’re a fucking gift to the world that anyone can have but him. The need to hook his fingers into the edge of that mask and pry it off is so urgent that it almost eclipses his fury over Mike.

Almost.

“Deniz,” Roman cautiously acknowledges his presence as Deniz comes within earshot. In the otherwise empty hall, his name rings hollow and eerie. Roman has straightened up, skate guards in hand, the garish hood slumped back against his shoulders. “Something you wanted?” The guarded politeness of the question only serves to stoke Deniz’s anger higher. Something he fucking wanted, indeed.

“Having fun spreading nasty rumours?” he demands, too riled up to bother with preliminaries. “I didn’t think you were the type to kiss and tell but then” – he scowls – “there wasn’t any _kissing_ , was there.”

Not that that was _his_ bloody fault.

Roman’s face darkens. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know very damn well what I’m talking about!” Deniz snarls, taking an extra step forward that brings him inside Roman’s personal space. “I’m talking about you talking to Mike!”

***

The initial alarm Roman felt when he saw Deniz bull-dozing towards him is seeping away, rapidly replaced by irritation, and no small amount of disgust. So much for a truce.

“Why, yes, I do occasionally talk to Mike,” he retorts, annoyance clipping each word sharply. “Him being my trainer and all. In fact – and this may come as a surprise to you – I have been known to talk to any number of people, at some length. It’s called basic human interaction, Deniz, not that you seem to know a whole lot about that.”

Deniz has stepped so close that Roman has to crane his head back to look him in the eye. It annoys Roman, as it’s always annoyed him when Deniz tries to use their height difference to his advantage. Like so much about Deniz, his attempts at physical intimidation are a bluff, and a transparent one at that: no matter how bad things got between them, physical violence has never been an issue and Roman knows, with absolute, bone-deep certainty, that Deniz would never go there with him. It’s a strange knowledge to have, and not necessarily all that comforting. Deniz has other ways of hurting people, and they’re all much more effective than the simple threat of a fist.

“For example,” Roman continues, “one could make a case that barging into someone and starting to yell at them at random is _not_ the most politic way to initiate a conversation.” He stabs a finger into Deniz’s chest, hard. “So take it down a notch, kindly stop looming over me, and if there’s something you want, you can tell me in a civilised tone or get the hell off my ice.”

After what seems an interminable moment, Deniz does take a step back, although his glare stays firmly in place. When he speaks, his voice is lower, more controlled, but no less furious. “Why the fuck did you tell Mike about what happened between us?”

“What?!” Roman gapes at him. It takes him several seconds to even comprehend what Deniz is saying, and when he does, he’s too consternated to get angry right away. “Are you completely off your rocker? I didn’t!”

“Yeah, right.” Deniz’s lips twist sideways in that cynical sneer that Roman hates, because he remembers a time when that sneer was not part of the repertoire of Deniz’s expressions, when Deniz’s sweet, wide mouth had not yet learned the shape of real cynicism. “Then why’s he picking on me at every turn?”

“Because he’s Mike, it’s what he does! Do you have any idea of some of the things he’s said to me over the years?” Roman shakes his head incredulously. “The only thing he knows is that you’re whoring yourself out to half of Essen, and may I remind you that _that’s_ hardly a secret! Do you really think he needs more than that to try and shake you up?”

Deniz is looking at him intently, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell him what happened?” Grudging hesitation makes him sound younger than he is, and Roman finally feels a spark of indignation light at the lingering suspicion in Deniz’s voice and posture, the extent of cruelty he obviously believes Roman capable of.

“Of course I didn’t bloody well tell him, what do you think I am?” he demands. “And for heaven’s sake, Deniz, why on earth would I tell _anyone_ about that? Do you really think that sordid little incident is something to be proud of? Something worth sharing?”

Deniz actually has the nerve to look hurt. “It wasn’t sordid until you-“

“Do we have to keep talking about this?” Roman interrupts tersely. “It’s over. It was an… _experience_ ” – he feels his mouth twist on the word, as if he’s bitten into something sour – “and you’ve got your money. Could we just-“

“I didn’t want your damn money!” Deniz’s exasperated shout surprises Roman enough to stop him short. “And I certainly didn’t _take_ it, either! Man, you better watch it so you don’t break your neck when you fall off that high horse, Roman. Like you never made any mistakes!”

One of Deniz’s hands comes up to make a helpless, aborted gesture; then he runs it through his hair almost violently, giving him a certain resemblance to an irate hedgehog. Despite himself, Roman notices that while he looks and sounds royally pissed off, there is a curious absence of the many tell-tale signs that Deniz is lying. Roman knows them all intimately – the flickering eyes, the twitching mouth, the extra-bright smiles, overly sweet and brittle. He’s catalogued and learned them all by heart, so he won’t fall into the same traps twice. It’s vaguely baffling not to see any of them now, to be confronted with this sudden show of seemingly honest exasperation. Still, anyone can learn new tricks, even Deniz. And given his current profession, he must’ve had a lot of training lately, learning new ways to lie.

As ever, the thought gives him a bad taste in the back of his mouth, stale and sickly. He raises his brows. “I’m not sure it’s good business practice to refer to your johns – excuse me, your _clients_ – as mistakes to their faces, Deniz,” he says coolly. “Has a nasty ring to it. And as for the money, I seem to recall that it was left firmly in your care, which to me implies acceptance. I’m sorry, I’ve never actually engaged a professional before, so I’m not too familiar with the etiquette – was I supposed to get a receipt?”

***

Deniz has a good mind to pin Roman against the boards behind him and throttle the sarcasm right out of him with his bare hands. He clenches his fists, willing the urge down. “Just because you threw it at my face doesn’t mean I took it, you ass!” Roman is already opening his mouth, so he raises his voice to cut him off. “And one more thing, because I’m sick and tired of you going on about it – not that it’s even any of your business, but it was just once, okay? _One_ client, and she fired me, and ever since, I haven’t… the hell, it was stupid anyway, I _know_ that, and I’m trying to get my shit back together here, so I’d really appreciate it if you and Mike could stop giving me a hard time about it, all right? And… and… and if you really think that you… that I… that _this_ ” – he makes a wild, flailing motion in the general direction of the locker room and, by extension, what happened in it –“that I did that for your fucking _money_ , then you really are the stupidest jerk alive!”

He stops abruptly, breathing harshly. It all just came rushing out of him, and now he feels defused somehow, as if he’s blown all his ammunition in one wild salvo and now can’t quite comprehend why he was shooting in the first place. The echoes of his outburst still chase each other around the rink, and Roman hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s still just standing there, his lurid jacket bright against the cool white of the ice, one hand on the boards as if he’s ready at a second’s warning to push himself off and float away across the ice, putting himself safely out of reach.

“Why _did_ you do it, then?” The tone of the question is almost disinterested, coolly polite as if one way or another, Roman doesn’t much care about the answer; but Deniz isn’t blind. He can see the way Roman’s fingers have tightened about his skate guards until the knuckles are almost white, can sense the sudden hunch of tension in his ex’s shoulders. There’s a spiteful part of him that wants to rattle that irritating pretend indifference with a cruel reply, something like “ _I was bored_ ” or “ _You were obviously gagging for it_ ” or even “ _It was a pity fuck, what else?_ ”

But Roman is looking at him in that way he has, without blinking, his chin raised in silent challenge, eyes level and very blue. His shoulders are squared and there’s something strangely moving about his posture: that unconscious determination, always, to be no less than himself, repercussions be damned. It’s the strangest blend of brittle and unbreakable, and facing it now, Deniz discovers that underneath his petty instinct lie two bewildering truths: he doesn’t want to hurt Roman, and he doesn’t want to lie about this.

He unclenches his jaw, takes a deep breath, and says simply, “I wanted to.”

The three words hang in the cold air between them, clear and strangely undramatic; the sentiment almost matter-of-fact in and of itself, though by no means uncomplicated as far as implications go. Deniz is oddly relieved now that the words are out, ill-considered as they may be. No way to unsay it now, even if he wanted to, and Deniz is not sure if he does.

He’s also not sure what sort of reaction he’s expected, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when Roman merely tilts his head a bit, brows drawn together. “Why should I believe you?” His tone is carefully neutral, but suspicion is plain in his eyes and his rigid posture. There is a part of Deniz that understands this surprisingly well – understands that after everything that’s happened between them, Roman is the last person who’d take his word for anything. But there’s another part as well that’s thoroughly frustrated with being doubted at every turn, and currently that part is winning out.

It’s like after the botched championships all over again, him trying to reach out and Roman throwing his sympathy back in his face with a sneer, and he’s sick of it. He looks away for a second, puzzled by how much this actually bothers him, then shrugs, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets.

“No particular reason, I guess.” He feels oddly tired all of a sudden; tired of pushing and being pushed, tired of being regarded with wary distaste by someone who used to look at him with such uncompromising adoration. “Believe what you want,” he says, shoulders sagging. “You always do.”

He turns on his heel and walks away, the breath of the ice cold against his back.

***

Later, alone on the ice under the vast vault of the ceiling, Roman spins himself into tight circles, his mind whirring just as fast in the opposite direction, until he doesn’t know which way he’s moving anymore, or whether he’s actually frozen in place, the tumble of his thoughts a mere illusion of motion. From somewhere outside, he can hear howling wind and the insistent lashing of rain or hail against the roof. He knows that he should probably go home before the weather gets too bad, but he finds himself unwilling to leave. On the ice, his mind is as clear as it ever gets; considering how muddled it is right now, he dreads the moment when he has to leave its simple, glassy expanse behind.

Trying to distract himself from the pitfalls of his inquisitive mind, Roman works on his combination until his muscles burn and his ankles throb with the strain of absorbing the impact of his landings. And for a time, it works: the loops and spins thread into each other more naturally than under Mike’s critical eye, and for the first time since he’s worked out his program, he feels like he might actually be able to do a decent job of it. But when he switches to the simpler motions, the ones that don’t require all his concentration, his brain inexorably keeps flashing back to the conversation with Deniz. It rehashes the encounter at the boards in annoying detail: Deniz’s outraged face, the way his voice nearly broke on that angry shout, as if he’s twelve instead of nineteen.

 _Might as well be, if we’re talking emotional age,_ Roman thinks sourly as he glides backwards across the ice; but he can’t help feeling perturbed, much as he dislikes it.

It’s almost funny, in a way: So long he’s spent trying to have a real conversation with Deniz, nudging and pestering and pushing until Deniz pushed back, hard enough to crack Roman’s heart more than once. There’ve been times when all he’s wanted was to throw out that damn red couch and tie Deniz to a hard chair instead, keeping him there until they’ve finally talked things out and Roman can walk away a free man. That Deniz should be the one to confront him now, long past the point where Roman’s disgustedly given up on any chance of an air-clearing conversation... well, yes, it’s funny, if your sense of humour is a complete sadistic bitch.

And to toss such a thing at his feet, with such typical, thoughtless rage – to turn even the confession of a lack of ulterior motive into an ulterior motive in and of itself. For someone so genuinely guileless, Deniz can be such a manipulative bastard, the more so because it’s mostly unintended.

And it’s working, damn him. Roman’s mind, with its eternal and damnable need to _know_ , to turn a thing around and around until he’s made sense of it, can’t help spinning back from that angry revelation, through the weeks of studied disinterest and recovery, and straight to that day in the locker room. He can’t help casting that encounter into the new light of this discovery, illuminating it from an angle he never thought to consider – never thought possible, if he’s honest about it. Once again, he races through the motions of their shove and push that day, trying to find a way to disprove Deniz’s words, find solid evidence that Deniz is lying after all; that to him, that day was nothing more than one of many transactions, quick and dirty and all business.

It doesn’t fit. The middle is all tangled up in a haze of lust and loathing, hopelessly ensnared in his own emotions and the cruel extra layer of those alternate versions of them that Roman could envision all too clearly. No hope of an unbiased perspective there, not when his traitorous skin still retains the shape and feel of Deniz’s lips, the urgent sounds he made as he sucked on Roman’s cock. There’s the beginning, though – that first moment of almost-pleasure on Deniz’s face, the hint of a genuine smile before everything went downhill. And there’s the end: that last, puzzling look of stunned betrayal when Roman flung the money at his feet. At the time, it made him angry, the thought that someone who’d just casually whored himself out to him would try to make _him_ feel guilty for it. Now…

Roman pulls out of a loop into a spin-scratch, frustrated and more agitated than he’s been in weeks. Damn it, he’d come to terms with this – had accepted that he’d done something stupid but that it couldn’t be helped, and that Deniz had to know what he was getting himself into. And yes, he’s hated the thought that he paid for the tarnished favours of someone who once gave them to him unspoilt and willingly, but he’s been dealing with it, and he’s been doing okay so far.

But if it isn’t true… if all those lurid, sickening fantasies he’s harboured, Deniz spreading wide for any number of nameless, faceless men, in any number of places, didn’t actually happen…

Roman very nearly hates the involuntary wash of relief that thought inspires as much as he hated those sordid imaginings themselves. Because even if it _is_ true, even if Mike was just blowing things out of proportion and this whole rentboy thing _was_ just a one-time slip, just Deniz being stupider than any person has a right to be, as usual… well, that still doesn’t address the actual issue here, does it.

 _“Why did you do it, then?”_

“I wanted to.”

And that surprising admission opens the door to a whole slew of other thoughts – thoughts that Roman doesn’t necessarily want to ponder. Much as he loathed the idea that Deniz had knelt like that before dozens of other men for money – to find out now that he _hasn’t_ ; that somehow, against all odds, that uninhibited enthusiasm should have been real, should have been nothing more than honest, if conflicted, desire for _him_ … Somehow that thought is miles more problematic than the idea of Deniz selling his considerable charms to anyone who waves a wallet at him.

Roman knows that Deniz wants him. Even in those early days when everything started to unravel in his hands, that was hardly ever in question. Proof was painfully evident at every turn, every oh so convenient opportunity for their lips to meet, a challenge to turn physical, a moment of sincere consolation to derail into a heated tussle on the red couch. An absence of passion has never been their problem. It’s the lack of other things in Deniz, things that to Roman are essentials in a relationship – commitment, honesty, devotion – that have sabotaged them from the beginning. A lack that Roman overlooked for much longer than was prudent, blinded by a pretty face and his own hopeless infatuation… but a lack that was always there, blunt and uncompromising and not, in the end, something that could be compensated for.

And an admission of desire – even honest desire, even desperate – is not enough to fill that void, not even close. He must remember that, Roman thinks, clenched hands reluctantly uncurling as he raises his arms for another pirouette. It’s somewhat gratifying, yes, and perhaps it can even lift a layer of ugliness from that encounter in the locker rooms, soften it from a sordid transaction into a simpler exchange of genuine passion. But it’s no more than that, even if that’s more than he thought he could expect from the person Deniz has turned into, and it doesn’t change anything about the things that matter.

He must remember that.

It’s his ringing mobile that finally calls Roman off the ice, Ingo’s voice in his ear, warm and soothingly cheerful.

“Yeah, Lena’s fine. We’re having a bit of a party, actually – Marian’s plied the nurse with his Turkish macho charms, so she’s agreed to let us hang out past visiting hours. Anyway, we’ll probably stay here over night, just so you know – there’s traffic warnings all over the place and the trams have shut down because of the ice storm, so…”

“Ice storm?” Roman asks, bewildered. He’s heard the rain drumming against the roof, of course, but…

Down the line, Ingo makes an exasperated noise. “Look out a window sometime, will you? Yes, Romännchen, an ice storm. You know, a weather phenomenon. The weather being that thing that tends to happen outside while silly obsessed bunnies spend hours in the rink instead of being snug and cosy at home munching on carrots and watching bad soaps.”

“Hah bloody hah. I don’t watch any soaps.”

“Well maybe you should start. You need a hobby.” There’s crackling noises and Ingo’s voice drifts away for a moment, talking to someone else. Then he comes back, sounding cheerful. “Sorry, Roman, gotta go. Mike has hunted down _The Day After Tomorrow_ and we’re going to watch it. Extreme weather! Extreme effects!”

“Extremely bad acting,” Roman supplies dryly, and “That too,” Ingo agrees happily. Roman finds himself wishing with a sudden sharp pang that he’d gone to the hospital earlier so he could be with them now. Annette’s disapproval notwithstanding, he wishes he were with friends tonight instead of alone at the flat, with no one for company but Olga. If nothing else, the dreadful movie might take his mind off the twisted mess that is his non-relationship with Deniz Öztürk for a few hours.

“Alright, then,” says Ingo’s voice in his ear. “Get your arse home already! See you tomorrow!” Again, someone says something behind him. “Oh, right! Roman?”

“Yes.”

“If Celine’s at the flat share, tell her where we are, okay? I couldn’t get in touch with her, maybe the phone lines snapped or something. Exciting, huh?”

“You’re mental,” Roman murmurs, but he packs up his things and goes to change. Better the storm than the ice, where his thoughts loop themselves into a hopeless tangle and he finds himself once again incapable of letting go.

***

Somewhere inside him, Deniz has a door that’s labelled “Roman Wild”, and for almost a year he’s gone to any lengths to keep it locked. Before that door was there – when Roman was free to roam through his mind, his heart, his life – he’d begun to spill everywhere, taking over everything. Any stray thought or sentiment that Deniz hesitantly offered, Roman pounced on and claimed, demanding more. Barely prepared to open himself up to any kind of permanent attachment, Deniz found himself thrown out of all alignment by that intensity, that eager possessiveness; by Roman’s never-ending need to turn him inside out and stake his claim on every naked, writhing inch.

Of course it was amazing. Of course it was flattering, mind-blowing and humbling.

Of course it was fucking unbearable.

Roman has always wanted all of Deniz, his need so sharp and all-consuming that all too soon Deniz felt like within a very short time, there’d be no inch of space left for himself. The only options were to lose himself inside that ruthless intensity, or to get out.

So out he got.

For a year, he’s gone through the motions of reclaiming himself, refashioning himself into the kind of guy he’s wanted to be so badly for so long: a normal kind of guy, more or less. He equipped himself with all the essentials – a girlfriend with whom he could have ordinary fights over ordinary things, a career that, while uncertain and full of unexpected pitfalls, was his own; a life that wasn’t tangled up so profoundly, so inseparably in someone else’s that to let go would mean to slice himself to bleeding ribbons.

For a year, he’s kept Roman and the alarming intensity of their long gravitation towards each other and their brief happiness firmly behind that door, securely locked. There’s been the odd aberration, for sure: those moments when memory, yearning and curiosity became too strong and he slipped behind the door, driven by the irresistible urge to find out if what lay behind it had weakened with time. And it hadn’t – each time it was as elating and scary as ever, and he retreated quickly, locking up behind him and throwing away the key.

And for a while, it worked. Granted, it wasn’t ideal – if there’s one thing that Vanessa is not, it’s conventional, and he quickly found out that having a steady girlfriend is not that terribly different or less demanding than having a steady boyfriend. But at least while it lasted, it was safe, and fun, and warm. At least she didn’t demand that he hand himself over, spread himself open, give all he had to give and lose himself in the process. At least she let him breathe.

For a while there, he thought he could make life work for him the way it was supposed to be: do the expected thing, fuck up in expected ways. Not have to struggle, every step of the way, to defend his choices, or his sense of self, scrambled as it may be.

But something happened, that day in the changing room. Between the red lockers and the yellow tiles, somewhere amidst their ping-pong of recriminations and desire, somehow that lock got picked, that door cracked open. And ever since, Deniz has found himself unable to close it again.

And now, some winter hour before midnight, in someone else’s office, with someone else’s job to do, Deniz can’t help but wonder: How did he get here, to a place where being a whore, a cheat, a liar, an eternal, self-invented fraud, is preferable to being himself? How did he run so far and fast, too intent on putting distance between him and that closed door to realise he’s running himself into a corner?

The bloody training schedule is blurring before his eyes again, and Deniz curses loudly, pushing his fists into his tired eyes to rub them. He’s moved from the lounge to Ingo’s office, needing the relative privacy of walls around him and a door he can close. There’s still the glass-front counter, of course, but it’s better than out by the pool.

Not that he can concentrate on fucking work, anyway.

“Oh! Deniz?”

For the second time tonight, Deniz is caught off-guard by a voice just in front of him, although this one is female, and infinitely preferable to Mike’s leering drawl. He sits bolt upright and finds himself looking at Constanze’s surprised face looking in at him through the opening in the glass front before him. She’s dressed to leave, already wrapped in her jacket and scarf, a woollen cap pulled down on top of her mass of hair.

“I didn’t realise anyone was still here,” she says, leaning over to peer at the paperwork in front of him. “Letting Ingo take advantage of you?”

“Shamelessly,” Deniz nods, grimacing as he stretches and notices how tense his shoulders are.

Constanze smiles. “Well, you should call it a night. Everything’s freezing up outside, it’s going to be a miserable walk home. Anyway, I have to lock up. Everyone else is gone.”

“Really?” Deniz squints at the clock on the wall behind him, surprised to see it’s half past ten. “Damn. I really have to get this done, Constanze, or Ingo will kill me. Can’t you leave me the keys or something? I could lock up for you.”

She shakes her head immediately, heavy curls bouncing. “No can do. Axel would have my head.” She hesitates, cocking her head. “I could give you the key for the machine room, I guess. You know there’s an exit in there?”

Deniz nods, vaguely recalling it mentioned from a fire drill last summer, and Constanze fiddles with her massive bunch of keys, detaching one with a yellowed tag and dropping it on the table before him. “There you go. You don’t have to lock up behind you, either, it’s self-locking.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She departs with a wave and a smile, and Deniz straightens in his chair, bending over his notes and frowning hard. This is why he doesn’t deal in introspection – all it does is muddle you up inside while the world passes you by, and in the end there’s nothing to show for it.

Somewhere inside, there’s a door labelled “Roman Wild”, cracked open just the smallest bit, and there’s a wealth of things spilling out from it, insidious tendrils of confusion, anger, and a yearning so strong that it terrifies Deniz every bit as much as that first day on the couch, when Roman slid his hand into Deniz’s hair and smiled at him, whispering, _“Me too, a little.”_

Resolutely, Deniz turns his back on that open door, forcing the world back into focus, for a while.

***

Ingo was right – the weather _has_ turned nasty. The earlier miserable drizzle has turned to all-out, sleeting rain, and within only a few hours, the temperature seems to have dropped by ten degrees or more. An icy wind howls through the bare tree branches in the park, and the rain freezes almost as soon as it hits the ground, turning the paths slippery and traitorous with a fast-freezing sheet of water over hardened snow. It doesn’t help that more than one streetlamp is out, so it’s hard to see where you step. Roman’s street shoes slip and skid underneath him and he entertains a brief fantasy about going back to fetch his skates. _Figure skating, an exercise in practical application._ He could do pirouettes and all.

As he half-slides down the path in the semi-dark, Roman digs for his mobile, remembering what Ingo said about Celine. He tries her mobile first, but it goes straight to voicemail. Roman hits “Home” instead, but like Ingo said, there’s only silence on the other end; he doesn’t even get a dial tone.

“Well, great,” he murmurs, holding his phone in front of him to squint at the screen; and that’s when he hears the noise. It’s a sharp, resounding snap somewhere above him, ringing through the sleeting of the rain loud as a gunshot, and it nearly makes Roman jump out of his skin. Looking up, he sees a snapped branch coming crashing down from the tree next to the path. It’s as thick as his leg, and Roman scrambles backwards as it hurtles towards the ground. He manages to avoid it, but the motion is too swift, too abrupt, and he feels his feet slipping out from underneath him. He curses and wildly flaps his arms, dropping his mobile in an attempt to keep his balance, but this ice is different from his beloved, carefully levelled rink. It’s slick and untamed under his bladeless feet, and it doesn’t distinguish between friend and foe.

 _Slipping on fucking_ ice, _how lame is that_ , Roman thinks, bewildered and exasperated, as the glistening dark ground rushes up towards him. There’s a sharp, cracking pain as his head connects with the solid ice, his vision sparking red and purple through the colourless night; and then it all goes black.


	6. Silver Thaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Roman Wild. You slipped on ice?" -"Oh shut the hell up."

_Silver thaw: A deposit of glaze built up on trees, shrubs, and other exposed objects during a fall of freezing precipitation; the product of an ice storm._

  
By the time Deniz is done, it’s nearly midnight, and he’s ready to crumple Ingo’s fucking colour-coded training schedule into a dozen little paper balls and set them on fire, along with Ingo’s office, Ingo’s locker, and quite possibly Ingo himself. The schedule is neat enough, coordinated with the skaters’ ice times and complete with individual workout sessions customised to each player’s strengths and weaknesses. It was even fun, for the first two hours or so.

“I am _so_ demanding pay next time I see him,” Deniz murmurs to himself as he rises from Ingo’s chair. He stretches cramped muscles, grimacing at the pull in his shoulders, and even considers the weight room for a moment, just to work out the kinks. But tiredness wins out. He shoves the schedules into a folder, gathers up his things and is in the process of reaching for Constanze’s machine room key when the power goes out. A low hum he hadn’t registered – a heater, perhaps, or a far-off generator – stops abruptly, and Deniz finds himself enveloped in dark, utter stillness.

He freezes, blinking rapidly in the sudden disorienting black, hand still extended. “What the-“

Then the emergency lights come on: a faint, bluish glow, much weaker than the normal brightness of the fluorescent lights. Still, it’s illumination. Deniz grabs up the key, heart beating faster than normal. The storm must be more serious than he thought, if it can knock out the power. Strange, though – he can’t hear the sound of the wind anymore. Apart from the noises he makes rummaging about, everything’s utterly quiet.

He finishes packing up quickly, suddenly longing for the familiarity of home. Perhaps his father will still be up and they can have a beer or something, or maybe Lena will want a late-night movie. Even if he just goes to bed, it’ll be infinitely preferably to the strange, vast place this has become tonight, alien and blue like an abandoned spaceship or something.

Deniz has never been a fan of the dark. He remembers tearfully shouting at his mother when he was little, begging for her to leave a light on at night, and how she tried to convince him that there was, in fact, no man-eating tiger under his bed and that his action figures would keep watch over him. He didn’t believe her, wheedling and panicking until she grew impatient; until his father came in, attracted by the noise, and snarled at her to _let the kid have a fucking light already, can’t you see he’s terrified?_ Deniz got his light, but he also got to listen to them shouting in the living room for an hour or longer, and somehow that was more scary than the dark and the man-eating tiger.

He makes his way down the stairs and along the corridor past the locker rooms. It looks even more sinister down here, where some of the emergency lights flicker slightly, bathing everything in the restless, unstable glow. It’s also noticeably colder down here, or maybe it’s just the fact that when the power went, the heat went off and the cold is seeping slowly into the building. _“Supposed to be one of the coldest nights of the year,”_ Deniz recalls Marian saying that morning. _“Business is not going to be great.”_

He pulls up the collar of his down jacket, already shivering slightly, and hastens down the corridor with one hand against the wall, not entirely trusting the lights. It gets even colder as he pushes open the door to the stands, the freezing air off the ice rink enveloping him within seconds. The lights are even more useless here, their faint illumination swallowed after only a few steps by the vast darkness of the ice at night, without its usual bright glare from the industrial-strength lights above. It looks like different ice entirely, hostile and gloomy, and Deniz avoids looking out into the strangely solid black. He hurries along the back to the machine room door, unlocks it, and pushes through.

If the familiar surroundings of the Centre above looked strange in this light, the machine room appears even more alien. Here, the illusion of spaceship surroundings is heightened by the looming metal shapes of engines, pipes and industrial boilers, squatting massive and silvery in the sinister blue glow, extending steel arms from the darkness. From passing by this room previously, Deniz remembers that there’s usually a hum of working machinery coming from inside it, but now everything’s silent, all movement stilled. It’s slightly less cold in here than out near the rink, some warmth from the engines perhaps lingering still; but not by much, and Deniz can already feel the cold air from the rink wafting in past him. With some reluctance, he closes the door behind him, squinting ahead in search of the exit door Constanze mentioned. He nearly misses it, a faint outline in the shadow of a massive steel giant whose purpose he cannot possibly guess. He hurries towards it between the silent machines. Halfway to the door, he stumbles on an old training mat lying haphazardly on the floor, and nearly falls. Cursing, he kicks at the mat, which slides a few feet back, knocking over an empty bucket and causing a loud metal crash that grates on Deniz’s already strained nerves. He nearly runs the rest of the way to the door, fighting the almost irresistible urge to cast suspicious looks back over his shoulder.

He pushes the key into the lock and turns it, then grabs the round knob, turns, and pushes. For a second, the door doesn’t budge, and his pulse speeds up. He gives it another hard shove, and it yields abruptly, with a flake of paint and rust and a sudden rush of fresh air into his face, so bitingly cold that Deniz gasps for breath.

He stares out into the open, disoriented by the sudden change from the bluish steel cavern behind him to a no less alien – though more beautiful – nightscape of black and dripping silver.

He’s come out on the east side of Steinkamp Centre, as far as he can tell, with the park just ahead of him. In the pale light of the streetlamps along the path, he can see the reason why he couldn’t hear the storm anymore: The wind, the sleeting rain have stopped, and everything has frozen into a bizarre wonderland of ice and shadow. The path is solid ice, paved smooth and slippery. There’s the occasional, wide puddle of rain water or slush alongside it in the grass, although even the larger ones are covered with a thin sheet of ice. The park itself has turned to glass, each tree branch covered in ice, each individual leaf and blade of grass crystallised into a tiny replica in ice. Raindrops still hang on the branches, frozen in mid-motion: a filigree of spun light and water. The benches, so drab and ordinary in the daylight, look like masterpiece sculptures, cunningly carved from blocks of ice.

The noise of the door falling shut behind him wakes Deniz from his open-mouthed trance, making him jump. He steps on the path without thinking, then exclaims in alarm when his feet nearly slide out from under him, the ice more smooth than the rink after an hour’s polish. Deniz waves his arms wildly and manages to stay upright. Air gusts from between his lips in fast-disintegrating clouds of steam. It is stunningly, breathtakingly, painfully cold. His unprotected ears are already burning from the sting and his fingers are going numb, but he finds himself reluctant to hurry home, to disrupt the frozen stillness of this fantastic display with too-fast motion. Instead, he stares, turning slowly and carefully to take in his surroundings. Someone’s dropped a plastic bag on the path, and it, too, is coated in a hair-thin layer of ice, turned into some kind of bizarre, beautiful flower. A large rock near the bottom of a tree has somehow escaped being glazed with ice, perhaps protected by the branches above.

Deniz frowns, looks more closely, strains his eyes. Gasps in alarm.

The rock is a person. A shoe pokes out from underneath a dark coat; what he took for a shadow is an arm, fingers limp and curled in the frozen grass. A duffel bag lies on its side in the middle of the path.

“Holy _crap_!” Deniz’s shout rings breathless and brittle through the frozen night, harsh enough to snap branches. He runs for the motionless figure, slipping and sliding on the glassy path. All of a sudden, the ice-coated park is no longer magical, but an impairment, cold and dangerous. “Hello! Are you okay?”

He drops to his knees next to the human-shaped lump and curses again, more explicitly, when his knees break through a thin sheet of ice and sink into freezing cold slush. It seeps rapidly through his jeans, chilling his skin. His grasping fingers find the stiff material of the coat, and underneath the outline of a shoulder. Deniz shakes it wildly. “Hey! Wake up! Hello?”

When he pulls, the body rolls around, revealing a white, sharp-boned face, the shadow of long lashes. Deniz can feel his heart stop and stutter, then double its already hectic pace. “Roman,” he breathes, “oh shit… _Roman!_ ” He gropes frantically for injuries, sliding his hands around Roman’s skull. They discover the slight rise of a lump, but no blood, thank god. Tiny icicles are crusting Roman’s hair and eyebrows.

Deniz grabs Roman by both shoulders and gives him a shake, then hisses in alarm when his quickly numbing fingers encounter icy wetness underneath. How long has he been lying here? The slush hasn’t had time to freeze completely yet, so that might be a good sign, but fuck, he’s so cold… Deniz shakes him again, then slaps a cold cheek, lightly at first, then harder. “Roman, for fuck’s sake, come on, wake up!” He hardly knows that he’s shouting, his voice ringing through the still, frozen park.

On the fifth slap, there’s a faint moan and Roman stirs. “S-s-stop…” A hand comes up to bat feebly at the air, trying to ward off further slaps. Air gushes out of Deniz’s lungs in a rush of relief so powerful that for a second he can’t breathe. Roman’s lashes flutter briefly, trying to lift; his lips part for another wordless groan, and Deniz reclaims air, and speech.

“Roman! Can you hear me? Hey! Look at me – _Roman!_ ” He keeps patting at Roman’s cheeks, gentler now but no less urgent, and though it seems like an eternity, eventually Roman’s eyes focus blearily on him.

“Ow.”

“Come on, talk to me! Are you hurt?”

There’s a small cracking noise as Roman pulls his knees up and his coat parts from the ice it had begun to freeze to. “C-c-cold.” His voice is a hoarse, cracked whisper, and Deniz feels the panic that began to subside when he saw Roman stir rekindle.

“Okay, don’t worry, I’ll get help,” he babbles, staring wildly about him, but the nightly park has nothing to offer in the way of help or comfort; it’s completely deserted, hostile and dark. Deniz’s panicked gaze falls on the dark rectangle of the door in the side of the building that he left behind, and his mind clears, a little. He tugs at Roman’s sleeve, the fabric stiff with frost under his fingers. “C’mon, let’s get you inside first, it’ll be warmer… Roman. Can you get up?”

There’s no response from the limp pile at his feet, and Deniz swears again, frantic and helpless. “Don’t you fucking do this to me, Roman! I need you to get up!” At his insistent prodding, Roman only curls up more tightly, making the ice shift and crack beneath him. Where Deniz brushes over his face and hands, the skin is freezing; his own cheeks and fingers are so cold after no more than fifteen minutes outside that he can’t even imagine what Roman must feel like, frozen and wet for god knows how long.

“Okay,” he murmurs to himself, bending over Roman. “Okay, come on. Come on then.” He manages to get one arm underneath Roman’s back and around his shoulders, grimacing when his hand sinks into icy cold slush; then pushes the other one under Roman’s knees, gathering up his legs. His back muscles scream in protest as he struggles, knees shaking dangerously, to hoist his uncooperative burden off the frozen ground. He manages eventually, only to almost lose his balance when Roman unexpectedly starts struggling in his arms.

“What… put me d-down. I c-c-can walk.”

“The hell you can,” Deniz bites out, shifting Roman’s weight more securely against his chest. He curses when Roman flaps an arm at him, barely missing his face. “Stop squirming or I’ll drop you!” He tightens his grip.

For a wonder, Roman does as he’s told and stops resisting. His head rolls around to tuck against Deniz’s shoulder with a pained sigh, nose freezing and wet against Deniz’s bare neck. Even so, it seems like a sheer endless, precarious walk back to the steel door framed by brick. The traitorous ground underneath Deniz’s feet seems all too eager to make him slip and he can’t see where he’s stepping, so he inches forwards cautiously and much slower than he’d like, all his instincts screaming at him to run for the door as swiftly as he can. Even without kicking up a fuss, Roman is no easy burden: he’s small but compact, solid bone and muscle and weighing about a ton just now.

By the time they get to the door, Deniz is breathing harshly, air puffing painfully in and out of his lungs. Roman has gone limp in his arms, head lolling when Deniz carefully lowers his feet to the ground to fumble for the key in his pocket. He leans awkwardly against the door with his left arm holding Roman more or less upright while he searches his pockets. His fingers are so cold that they can barely feel the metal of the key; clumsy and ungainly, they take forever to get the key in the lock and turn it.

The blue emergency lighting washes over his face again as Deniz pulls the door open. His breath steaming off his numb lips, he half-carries, half-drags Roman inside. He barely registers the clanging noise of the door falling shut behind them as he lowers Roman to the ground next to one of the massive steel contraptions.

“Okay, hang on,” he mutters, pulling down the zipper on his down jacket and yanking it off. He tucks it hastily around Roman’s slumped form, then straightens, shivering as he realises that it isn’t exactly warm in here either. Warmer than outside, yes, but with the power out and the machines not running, plus the ice rink beyond the far door, it’s noticeably chilly in here, too.

“Stay put,” he tells Roman breathlessly, as if there was the slightest chance of him going anywhere just now. “I’ll go call an ambulance. The phones must still be working.”

Without waiting for a response, he turns his back and runs, jumping over a corner of the old training mat that tripped him up before, and practically throws himself against the door leading to the corridor and up into the familiar territory of the Centre, where there are phones and blankets and towels and emergency kits.

The door won’t give.

At first, Deniz thinks he’s merely trying to open it the wrong way. Instead of pushing, he twists the round knob and pulls, but it’s the same either way; it must be one of those damn doors that only opens one way.

“Shit!” Deniz cries out, giving the door a good kick and another, fruitless yank. He jams his hand back in his pocket, groping for his mobile; he’s already pulled it out and flipped it open when he remembers, with a sudden drop in the pit of his stomach, that he’s out of charge. He _meant_ to charge it in Ingo’s office, but then he was brooding about stupid stuff and he forgot, and now there’s only the blank screen facing him.

Well, fine, no need to panic. He’ll just have to go back outside and run across the park, over to No. 7 to use the phone there. No problem. At least he got Roman out of the immediate danger of the cold.

Back across the room, past the motionless pile of Roman. He turns the knob on the outside door and pushes; so hard that when it doesn’t open, he actually hits his head against the heavy steel filling, in his mind already halfway through. He exclaims in pain and twists the knob again, rattling the locked door in mounting dismay. Too late, he remembers with freezing, crystal clarity the moment when he let go of the key, still in the outside lock, to drag Roman inside; too late he remembers Constanze’s friendly voice.

 _You don’t have to lock up behind you, either, it’s self-locking._

Against all better judgement, Deniz frantically searches all his pockets for the key, but it hasn’t magically hopped back into one of them. In his mind’s eye, he can see it all too clearly where he saw it last, only minutes ago: in the outside lock, the yellow tag dangling slightly.

He half-turns and stares at the locked door across the room; turns back to stare at the one just before him. Then he turns around slowly in a full circle, taking in the indifferent surroundings of the machine room, blue-lit and cold, with nothing in it but powerless machinery and silence. Roman lies curled on the floor at his feet, oblivious and shivering inside his wet coat.

“Fuck,” Deniz breathes, and the panic returns to beat its wings, swift as a scared bird, inside his chest. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

***

Everything is blurry. And the lighting is off somehow. There are agitated noises somewhere nearby, but the sound is dimmed, vaguely distorted as if he’s underwater – an impression that’s reinforced by the weird blue glow. Roman can’t feel his hands or feet, although his head is pounding insistently as if to make up for the lack of extremities. There’s a dull throbbing at the back of it that forms an unpleasant counter-beat to the insistent chattering of his teeth. He tries to stop it but doesn’t seem able to, any more than he can stop the harsh tremors that keep racing through him.

Motion in front of him. Someone’s saying his name, over and over. Sounds urgent. Roman wishes they’d go away so he could just lie here and concentrate on feeling rotten. Perhaps if he lies very still, his head will stop pounding and his muscles will get tired of shivering.

“Roman, come on, work with me here!” The annoyingly persistent someone grabs hold of his shoulders and pulls him upright, shaking him roughly. Roman wants to tell him that he can manage to shake quite well on his own, thanks very much; but forming words seems to take far too much effort.

“Dammit! Do I have to slap you again?” Frustrated voice. Familiar tone. Roman blinks blearily, squints at the blurry shape in front of him. Wide shoulders. Looks tall. Eventually, a face swims reluctantly into focus, dark eyes anxious in a pale face. Oh, right. Deniz. Some awareness floats back into Roman’s muddled brain at the sight of him: a memory of outside, Deniz yelling at him and slapping his cheeks. That hurt. Bastard.

He struggles into a more upright position, vaguely annoyed at how uncooperative his limbs are. Beyond Deniz, there’s a bizarre assembly of enormous steel shapes, with pipes running along the ceiling and walls. “W-w-where are we?” he asks, hating the shaking of his voice but unable to stop it; it’s a marvel that he can pry his chattering teeth apart long enough to form the question.

Something that might have been relief flits across Deniz’s tense face, quickly followed by a kind of sheepish chagrin. “The machine room at the Centre. I needed to get you out of the cold and this was closest but…”

Right. Roman dimly recalls the brief, sickening lurch of the frozen world as he was swept off the ground. Deniz of all people, _carrying_ him. The nerve.

He pursues the embarrassment factor of that for a moment. Combined with the fact that it was Deniz who found him in the first place and that Roman Wild, bronze medallist figure skater, slipped on _ice_ and nearly cracked his fool head open, that easily makes tonight one of the more mortifying incidents in recent history.

Wrapped up in his indignity, it takes him a long moment to catch up to what Deniz was saying; lifting his throbbing head, he manages to focus on Deniz’s face. “B-b-but?” he chokes out suspiciously between shivers.

“We, erm, kinda got locked in.”

Roman blinks, trying to make sense of a simple sentence, and having remarkable difficulty. “What?”

Deniz babbles something about keys and self-locking doors and asks him if he’s got his mobile. Roman merely shakes his head, too busy shivering to explain about how he dropped it when he fell, and not caring much besides. He vaguely feels like he should be furious at how typical this is, Deniz mucking things up in ever outrageous ways; but for him, rage has always been accompanied by a wash of heat, and he’s so cold that the concept seems very alien just now. Also, his attention is flagging fast, and Deniz’s embarrassed explanations trail off quickly. Hands dig into his shoulders, hard.

“Roman. Roman!” A curse, vicious and frightened-sounding. “Hang on. It’ll be okay. We just need to get you warmed up, it’ll be fine.”

Deniz disappears for a moment; then there are shifting and sliding noises nearby. Roman finds that he can’t see what’s going on because his eyelids seem to have dropped without his permission, and he finds he really doesn’t care enough to reopen them. Everything just takes so much effort. He drifts in and out of a doze, a soothing haze that beckons from the edges of his consciousness, promising quiet and perhaps even warmth. He thinks he may be shaking a little less now, and he’s not feeling quite so cold anymore. That’s a good sign, surely. He must be warming up. Now if only his head would stop pounding… perhaps he ought to sleep, just for a little. Yes, that might help.

Then Deniz is back, annoying and loud and in his face, not leaving him alone. “Roman. Can you move, just a little? There’s a mat, and I found a blanket. It’s a bit ratty, but better than nothing – Roman?”

Roman laboriously considers this proposal. It sounds like a whole lot of hassle for not much reward. Maybe if he just pretends he didn’t hear him, Deniz will go away and let him sleep. He lets his head droop.

There’s a breath in his face, harsh and loud, sounding almost like a sob. “Roman, come the fuck on, stay with me, do you hear? No falling asleep. Roman!”

He really is too bloody annoying. Roman feebly flaps his hand at him, trying to get him out of his face. “M’awake, you twat,” he murmurs. “S-s-stop f-fussing.”

“Okay, come on,” he hears Deniz say, tense and still sounding scared, though not quite so panicked as a moment ago. Like it matters a flying fuck if he sleeps for a moment, honestly.

The hands on his shoulder slide down to grab him beneath his arms, heaving him up and across the floor. Somewhere above him, Deniz keeps telling him that he’ll be fine, it’ll be okay, just stay awake a bit longer, _please._ Easy for him to say.

He’s lowered onto something less hard than the floor, and then Deniz is pulling at his wet coat, tugging his arms out of the sleeves. Roman finds his wits unwillingly drift back to consciousness for a bit as Deniz tugs clumsily at his clothes. The shivering sets back in with a vengeance when Deniz yanks his sweater over his head together with his t-shirt and his skin is suddenly exposed to the chilly air. He gasps out a protest in between the violent tremors, groping after his clothes, but Deniz doesn’t listen, moving down to pull off his sodden shoes and socks and then returning to fumble with his belt. Roman begins to struggle in earnest when Deniz undoes his fly, to no avail. His jeans are yanked down together with his briefs, removing the unpleasant sensation of wet, freezing cloth but also taking away the meagre protection of something – anything – between him and the cold air. Then something is tucked around him, scratchy and musty-smelling: presumably the blanket Deniz found. It’s dry, and it’s better than nothing, yes, but it’s not nearly enough. He tries to clutch it to him more tightly, but his fingers, frozen and ungainly, keep missing the edge, and it doesn’t help anyway; he’s shaking so hard that it hurts, twisting his muscles into frozen knots.

There’s more rustling and a half-hearted curse somewhere above him. Then Deniz is back, an arm round his shoulder to lift him up briefly and shove something underneath him. When he’s lowered back to the mat, he finds that he’s lying on something softer now, Deniz’s down jacket tucked underneath his back and head. Without warning, the blanket is lifted off him, and Roman yelps in shocked protest at the rush of cold air hitting his shrinking skin; but it’s only for a second. Suddenly Deniz is right there next to him beneath the blanket, all angles and long limbs. His skin is as bare as Roman’s, and not much warmer, at that. He tucks the blanket carefully in around Roman, then wraps his arms around him, gathering him in. Roman makes a muffled noise at the shock of sudden contact, skin pressed to naked skin.

“W-w-what the hell are you d-doing?” he manages, pushing feebly at Deniz’s shoulders.

Deniz merely grabs his cold hands and tucks them between their bodies, ignoring his protest. Breath gusts against his face, damp and blessedly hot. “It’s okay,” Deniz murmurs, “This should, uhm, help. We learned about it in school.”

Roman manages a snort through his chattering teeth. “Ac-costing me w-w-with your s-shrivelled bits should h-h-help?”

There’s another puff of air accompanying a decidedly annoyed noise. “I couldn’t be less interested in accosting you right now. Half-dead isn’t exactly my type. Besides,” he adds maliciously, “you’re really not one to talk about shrivelled. I can tell, you know.”

Before Roman can muster the breath for an indignant reply – he _has_ been lying in a freezing puddle for god knows how long, it’s entirely natural – Deniz tightens his arms about him, dragging him closer. “Now shut up. You need to get warm.” He shifts against Roman, rearranging them until he’s half lying on top of him with a leg thrown over Roman’s thighs and his arms locked tightly around Roman’s shaking back.

Trapped between the puffy softness of the down jacket and the solid weight of Deniz’s body, Roman gives up on resistance, for the moment. It takes too much energy, for one thing; for another, he still can’t seem to stop shaking. The tremors keep racing through his body, so hard that he feels as if his frozen muscles, overburdened by stress, might just crack apart any moment, shattering his body into pieces. Deniz keeps holding on, though, palms flat against Roman’s skin, and after what feels like an eternity, Roman starts to feel Deniz’s skin grow warm, then warmer still, heating quickly underneath the blanket. Tendrils of blessed heat start seeping from Deniz’s bare body into his, and Roman can’t help but burrow closer, seeking more.

Deniz used to be like this, he remembers hazily as the rising warmth of Deniz’s body starts to soften his own limbs, chasing the chills from his skin and then sinking deeper into muscle and bone. He’d always warm quickly, shedding layers impatiently and radiating heat like he radiated smiles. In bed, he’d turn into a veritable oven, always kicking off the sheets while Roman complained that he was cold. Now, Roman lets out a shaky sigh, releasing chilled tension with his breath as he nestles involuntarily closer, drawn to that generous warmth covering him. In response, Deniz tightens his arms even more, tucking Roman’s limp body against his chest. Roman nearly groans in relief as his muscles finally relax; his nerves tingle as the feeling returns to chilled extremities. For a few moments, it’s almost painful, the slowly warming blood feeling uncomfortably hot in his fingers and toes. The prickling sensation is not unlike the feeling of limbs newly reawakened after having fallen asleep. Then, as the heat soaks slowly into his body, the slight discomfort is chased away by blessed, drowsy warmth.

Soon, his nose is the only part of him that still feels really cold. He ducks his head half beneath the blanket, enjoying the warm puff of his own breath in the small, dark cave between the blanket and Deniz’s skin. Deniz’s neck is just before his face, so close he can almost hear the strong, regular beats of his pulse. He pushes his face into the curve where Deniz’s neck and shoulder meet, and Deniz makes a muffled noise at the cold nose digging into his skin, but doesn’t pull back. His head still throbbing, Roman closes his eyes, exhausted beyond endurance and content to lie here and just bask in this simplest of pleasures, an absence of cold.

***

It seems to take forever for the chills to leave Roman’s body, for his violent shaking to subside. Deniz holds onto his trembling shoulders, forcing himself not to flinch at the drip of cold water against his neck as ice crystals melt from Roman’s hair. If he could will his body warmer faster, he would; as it is, all he can do is cover as much of Roman’s cold skin as possible and hope it’ll be enough.

When Roman finally relaxes into him, when the temperature inside the scratchy blanket begins to rise to a tolerable level and Roman’s skin finally starts to _feel_ like skin again rather than a vibrating ice block, Deniz exhales slowly and somewhat shakily. The rush of adrenaline drains away, making him feel weak as a kitten. He can’t remember the last time he felt this terrified; doesn’t even know if he ever _has_ felt so scared before.

He loosens his grip marginally when he no longer feels as if he has to hold Roman’s body together so it doesn’t fly apart shaking. Remembering Roman’s head, he slides a hand up to cup the back of his skull, running his fingers over the respectable lump there. Roman mumbles something into his neck.

“Does that still hurt?” Deniz asks, prodding gently at the lump, and Roman makes an irritated noise.

“It does when you’re poking it like that. Stoppit.”

Deniz is too relieved about the relative normalcy of Roman’s voice to take offence. “What happened, anyway?”

The blanket shifts a bit when Roman shrugs and explains about the snapping tree branch. Despite his lingering worry, Deniz feels the corners of his mouth twitch. “Roman Wild. You slipped on _ice_?”

“Oh shut the hell up,” Roman grumbles, embarrassment clear in his voice. “I’m never living that one down, am I? -Oh _fuck!_ ” he suddenly exclaims, sitting bolt upright so fast that he accidentally elbows Deniz in the stomach.

“Hey!” Deniz protests, and then, “Shit, what are you doing?!” when Roman throws back the blanket. Chill air hits his recently warmed skin, raising goose bumps almost instantly. He sits up too, reaching for Roman, but he bats Deniz’s hand away, scrambling to pull the blanket away from his legs.

“Roman, what the hell-“

“My feet,” Roman says breathlessly, reaching for them. He sounds more than desperate, practically frantic. “My toes, Deniz, if there’s frostbite, they might… is there? Oh god, is there? I can’t see anything in this fucking light!”

Understanding hits Deniz then, sudden and nearly as chilly as the air. A skater needs his feet intact.

“Let me check. Roman, calm down!” When Roman grabs his feet, starting to massage the toes roughly, Deniz lurches forward to capture his hands and pull them away. “Wait, don’t rub them, you’re not supposed to. I’ll take a look, okay?” He shifts, pushing Roman’s panicked hands out of the way, and touches Roman’s bare feet. At least they’re not freezing cold anymore, surely that’s a good sign? The damn light _is_ confusing, though. He squints at the toes, takes one between his fingers to move it. “Can you feel that?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

Deniz repeats the process for all ten of them, getting gradually calmer as Roman keeps replying in the affirmative. “They look a bit red, but I think that’s okay,” he concludes eventually, his hand moving to cup Roman’s heels. “You’d only be in trouble if you couldn’t feel them, or if they’d turned white. You’re okay,” he repeats, because Roman is still sitting there rigidly, wild-eyed beneath his damp hair. Deniz releases his feet, and Roman stares fixedly at his toes, wriggling them again and again as if to convince himself that he can really do it. Eventually, he heaves a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging.

“Okay.” He tugs the blanket back up, covering himself, then transfers his gaze to Deniz, still kneeling naked by his feet. Almost imperceptibly, he lifts a brow. “When did you become an expert on frostbite? And hypothermia, for that matter?”

Deniz shrugs, feeling uncomfortably exposed in a way he didn’t when they were skin to skin. “We had a first aid course at school. The instructor was an insistent pain in the butt.”

“Uh huh.” Roman actually sounds almost amused. “Did you have to pair up and practise the getting naked bit?”

“Hey, it worked, okay?” Deniz says defensively. In this light, Roman looks oddly colourless, his skin like polished china. The impulse to reach out and make sure he’s still warm is strong enough to pull Deniz up from his knees; he shifts back up the length of the mat, reaching for the edge of the blanket.

Roman pulls it to his chest and leans back. “I’m, uhm, pretty warm now, actually,” he says, and this time he’s the one avoiding Deniz’s eyes. “I can probably manage by myself.”

Deniz very nearly rolls his eyes. “And keep the blanket to yourself? I don’t think so. This body heat thing works both ways, you know.”

He tugs at the blanket. Roman tugs it back. “I don’t think we should do this any longer than we have to,” he says, sounding more aloof than someone who was just shivering in Deniz’s arms fifteen minutes ago has any right to sound. “Much as I appreciate your applied first aid skills, I’m okay now, and you never did have any trouble keeping warm, so I think if we both just…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, could you stop being such a girl for two seconds!” Deniz explodes. “If we both just what, huddle in opposite corners and shiver? There’s one blanket. If we don’t share, we’ll both be cold. And if I’d wanted to let you freeze, I could’ve left you lying in your damn puddle, so get the fuck over yourself and come here!”

He gives up on pulling on the blanket and goes for Roman himself instead, grabbing him round the waist and hauling him in none too gently. Roman struggles briefly, making indignant noises of protest that Deniz firmly ignores. He drags the blanket back over both of them, tucking them in and keeping Roman’s hands pinned between them. “And stop wriggling!” he growls.

Miraculously enough, Roman does. Once more, they lie pressed skin to skin, slightly chilled again, but warming more quickly this time. Deniz can feel Roman’s breath against his neck, fast and shallow at first, but gradually slowing. When he’s reasonably sure that Roman isn’t going to launch another attack, he relaxes his grip a bit.

“Besides, chances are someone will find us soon,” he says into Roman’s hair. “My dad will wonder where I am, or Annette and Ingo will notice you didn’t come home.”

Roman tenses briefly, then goes limp, releasing a sigh. “Not tonight they won’t,” he says resignedly.

“What?”

Roman tells him about Lena’s baby scare and everyone staying at the hospital overnight. “And the phone line to our flat must’ve snapped or something,” he concludes. “They’re not going to wonder until they get home tomorrow morning. Maybe not then,” he adds glumly, thinking of how much attention they _don’t_ pay to his coming and going these days.

Deniz listens in growing dismay. “Crap.”

Roman nods, bumping Deniz’s jaw in the process. “Does anyone even know you were still at the Centre?”

He thinks back, trying to retrace conversations. “Vanessa does, but she won’t wonder till tomorrow either. And Constanze’s the only one who knows I was gonna leave by this door.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

Deniz sighs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Hopefully before either of us needs a toilet.”

“Uhm. Yeah.”

“Oh well.” Roman sounds less concerned than he probably should, his voice gone low and drowsy. It’s warm again beneath the blanket, Roman’s body a limp, pleasant weight against his. Deniz nudges him.

“Roman?”

“Hmm?”

“You should try to stay awake. That bump on your head… If you have a concussion, you shouldn’t fall asleep.”

Roman snorts into his shoulder. “There’s only so much medical expertise I’ll take from you in a night, Deniz Öztürk,” he grumbles. “I’m tired, there’s no telly, and you’re not all that entertaining, frankly, so I’m going to sleep. Try and stop me.”

His chin tucked firmly atop Roman’s head, Deniz rolls his eyes. “Fine, then. Don’t blame me if you die.”

There’s no reply, and Deniz shifts slightly to get one arm underneath Roman’s neck, bringing him more comfortably into the warm nook of his curled body. Long minutes pass in which Deniz just lies still, staring across the room into the ghostly blue-black dark between the silent machinery and almost unconsciously counting Roman’s breaths.

When he hears Roman’s voice again, he nearly jumps; he thought he was asleep already. “Deniz?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re not doing that anymore,” Roman murmurs, voice slow and groggy and half-asleep already. “It’s not safe, for one thing.”

“Huh?” There’s no reply, and it takes him a long, blank moment to follow the train of this complete non-sequitur. By the time he realises Roman is probably talking about the rentboy thing – did they only have that conversation today? – Roman is fast asleep, and it’s too late to tell him Deniz doesn’t need, want, or ask for his approval.

***

The second time Roman wakes is decidedly nicer than the first. There’s no one hitting him, for one thing. And the training mat and down jacket beneath him are infinitely preferable to the icy slush he woke in the first time. He’s even quite cosy, covered from head to toe in a warm, snuggly blanket.

A breathing blanket.

Roman freezes – not literally, thank god – for a moment, his sluggish, exhausted mind trying to puzzle out why, exactly, he’s lying beneath a naked body. Then it all comes rushing back: the locked door, his wet clothes, the debilitating, mind-numbing cold. And Deniz. Deniz, patting at his face, saying his name over and over, panic clear in his voice. Deniz, yanking at his clothes. Deniz lying on top of him still, large and solid and warmer than any person has a right to be.

Roman flexes his toes and fingers experimentally, remembering his lingering fear. Still all present and accounted for, and actually quite toasty. He supposes he should definitely shove Deniz off now that he’s no longer in danger of actually freezing to death. Declare the medical emergency over and re-establish much-needed boundaries.

But he’s warm and snug and the thought of exposing himself to the cold air of the machine room – and having another fight with one extremely stubborn half-Turk about it – holds absolutely zero appeal. He does shift a little to breathe more easily, dislodging Deniz’s weight a bit, and Deniz’s head lifts promptly from next to his.

“Roman?” His voice sounds alert and worried, with no trace of sleepiness. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm. I think so.” He wriggles a bit more to give himself some space, and Deniz rearranges himself obligingly enough. He doesn’t let go of him, though. “Were you awake this whole time?” Roman asks.

He can feel air shift against his face as Deniz nods. “I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t stop breathing or something.” Concern is still alive and real in his voice, and Roman can’t help but feel moved by it. It’s one of his weak spots, craving the comfort of others when he needs it, and he’s still all too susceptible to it at the moment, when for various reasons all the people who usually provide warmth and support in his life – Ingo, Annette, Diana – have been withholding or limiting it for quite some time.

Unfortunately for him, comfort is one of the few things Deniz has always been good at.

Roman clears his throat, just as Deniz asks, “How’s your head?”

“It’s fine. A bit sore, but fine, I think.” He moves it a bit to make sure, lifts it experimentally. Deniz shifts to give his movement room, and that’s when Roman notices that his earlier taunt about shrivelled bits no longer applies. Quite the opposite, actually, judging from the impressive erection he can feel pressed up against his hip.

He laughs, incredulously – perhaps not the most politic reaction, but he can’t keep it in; it’s just so absurd. This boy is the limit.

“Uhm, Deniz.” He coughs. “You’re a bit… more than awake, aren’t you?”

In the disorienting emergency light, it’s hard to make out Deniz’s skin tone, but Roman would bet a hundred euros that he’s blushing right now. “I can’t exactly help it,” he says defensively, and Roman snorts, not sure whether to be irritated or flattered or both. Deniz makes a noise somewhere in his throat, half-embarrassed and half-annoyed, but even now, he doesn’t move away. Weirdly enough, Roman even finds himself prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt that right now he’s probably more unwilling to expose Roman to the cold again than he is bent on getting some dry-humping action on the side.

“Sorry,” Deniz says, with as much dignity as one can muster under the circumstances, which really is not much.

“It’s okay,” Roman replies, and then adds dryly, with a note of good humour that surprises himself, “I know I’m irresistible.”

***

“You’re fucking full of yourself, is what you are,” Deniz murmurs, cheeks flaming, but in truth he doesn’t even mind being laughed at. He’s too relieved that Roman is speaking with his normal animation, that he’s no longer so frighteningly unresponsive. “You’ve also hit your head,” Deniz adds. “You could be hallucinating.”

It’s hard to tell, but he could swear Roman’s almost smiling. “Could be. Do you know what time it is?”

“Uhm. Hang on.” He pokes one arm out from under the blanket, groping for his discarded jeans and his watch, which he put in his pocket for training this afternoon and hasn’t bothered to back put on since.

“Never mind, if it’s too much trouble,” Roman adds. Deniz shakes his head, reaching a bit farther and digging the familiar shape of his watch out of the tangled pile of his clothes. He props himself up on one elbow to squint at the digital numbers. “It’s only two thirty.” Hard to believe that only three hours ago, he was still in Ingo’s office, bent over the bloody training schedule.

“Thanks.”

It’s only when Deniz scoots back underneath the blanket, rearranging himself against Roman once more, that he realises moving was probably not such a grand idea, given the circumstances. His hard-on, only mildly embarrassing but manageable before (and surely justifiable as an entirely natural reaction), drags across Roman’s stomach, the brush of warm skin an electrifying caress to already sensitised flesh, and an involuntary gasp escapes him. He stares, startled, down into Roman’s suddenly guarded face.

“Uhm,” he says, then snaps his mouth shut, feeling incredibly foolish. He’s still raised on one elbow above Roman’s torso and now stays frozen in that position, with no idea what to do. He’d move away, really he would, but that would still leave them with the dilemma of the cold.

Although… there’s no problem of being cold right now, quite the contrary. Deniz feels the heat rising between them, flushing his skin and stiffening his cock even more against Roman’s belly. He swallows, his throat gone suddenly dry. “I’m-“ he starts.

Roman interrupts him with sudden, quiet vehemence. “Do me a favour, Deniz. Don’t say you’re sorry. Just, please, for once, fucking _don’t_ , okay?”

“Okay,” Deniz says, bewildered and almost intimidated by the heat in Roman’s voice. Neither of them is moving, but Deniz can feel the tension tingling his skin, the sudden charge in the cool air. Roman’s lips are very close; their curve familiar and unsmiling and, as ever, very nearly irresistible.

He’s always wanted to kiss Roman, circumstance be damned. Whether they are at each other’s throats or holding hands, or grooming their indifference, the urge to take Roman’s mouth for his is always lurking in a vulnerable place inside. It’s a terrible weakness, like an old addiction, always striking when he least expects it, sly and sweet and insidious. It’s dangerous and stupid and very likely more than he can handle. He knows this. It doesn’t change a thing. It never has.

He licks his lips and gives in to that need, head dipping down. At the last moment, he freezes, though, suddenly remembering the last time that he tried this: the locker room, when Roman sneered at him and bluntly refused to kiss him. True, it was under false assumptions; at the time, Roman still thought he’d been whoring his mouth – and the rest of him – out to any number of strangers. Still, the memory arrests his downward sweep now, stops him from claiming Roman’s mouth the way he’s used to, eager and confident that he is welcome there.

Roman is looking up at him with eyes darkened by the absence of proper light, his expression impossible to read in the shadow cast by Deniz’s own head. He’s not moving, either to push him away or to invite him in. His lips a finger’s breadth from Roman’s, Deniz flounders in indecision for long seconds, trapped between his desperate urge and the nearly equally strong impulse to duck back, mumble something apologetic, and possibly stick his head under the mat.

He might very well have gone for the latter, had Roman not exhaled just then, a soft gust of air that brushes against Deniz’s face like a caress, smelling vaguely of peppermint gum, and suddenly he finds the decision taken from him, his head drawn down by something nearly as compelling as the force of gravity.

Even so, when he finally brushes his lips against Roman’s, he does it hesitantly, painfully aware that there’s no certainty of welcome here. His lips follow the contours of Roman’s mouth, rediscovering how soft the skin is there, especially when contrasted with the slight rasp of stubble. He trails an offering of small kisses along the curve of Roman’s upper lip, and when there’s no immediate sign of rejection, dares to dart out the tip of his tongue and trace the seam between Roman’s lips, begging entry. It’s been months. It should have been longer. How come he still hasn’t forgotten how the corner of Roman’s mouth feels curled against his tongue? How come he still hasn’t forgotten how he tastes?

It’s fucking madness, is what it is, and just now he finds he doesn’t care.

***

Roman doesn’t know what he expected from this. He was amused more than anything when he felt Deniz growing hard and then harder against his skin, thinking, _oh, typical_. Amused and yes, vaguely flattered, but mostly dismissive. This is what Deniz does; this is what he _is_. Thoughtless desire, flaring high like sudden bushfire, eventually consuming itself and leaving behind nothing but a taste of ashes. If he expected anything of this, it was Deniz’s usual modus operandi, the one that Roman has been voluntarily engaged in far too many times this past year: Sweep in like some sort of brash conqueror to take what he knows Roman is too obsessed, too needy, too goddamn stupid to deny him. And then depart, having got what he came for, satisfied and smug and leaving Roman to pick up the pieces of himself, unless he can manage to walk away first. He was prepared for that; it’s what he built his walls for.

He didn’t expect this – this strange humility, this unaccustomed tentativeness. It blind-sides him, catching him off-guard. It’s been so long since he’s been faced with Deniz being shy that for several moments, all he can do is lie there, his lips unmoving under the hesitant kisses, and wonder how this is a trap. He turns each brush of Deniz’s lips and tongue around and around in his mind, seeking for cracks in a façade, a hint that this is some sly game, some new strategy Deniz has learned to worm his way in where brashness would no longer work.

He doesn’t find any. Deniz’s tongue swipes against his lips, once, twice, three times, as if it’s some sort of ritual; it’s undemanding, gently entreating, and when Roman doesn’t respond, he feels Deniz’s body grow still. The tongue withdraws; the soft lips part from his with a barely audible sigh. Deniz’s head lifts away from his.

Roman untangles his hand from the blanket just in time to curve it round Deniz’s neck, halting his motion. Frowning, he looks up into Deniz’s face illuminated dimly by the indigo light, searching it for signs of calculation and still finding none. Deniz’s eyes are wide and black, his lips slightly parted, and he looks too mortified, too stricken for this not to be real. Roman makes a soft, growling noise and yanks his head back down. _To hell with it,_ he thinks. Tomorrow, he can agonise about this, or file it away under _Special Circumstances, Near-Death Experience_ or something. Right now, he needs to have this: the silky fullness of Deniz’s lips against his, the exhalation of breath into his mouth, shaky and hot. Deniz’s tongue, easing between his parting lips to tangle with his own, dancing slick and sweet around the inside of his mouth as if reacquainting itself with once-familiar ground.

Roman kisses back more forcefully, needing to counter-balance that odd supplication somehow, make it not quite so tender. Tender is dangerous. He chases Deniz’s tongue back and follows, nerves tingling at the recognition of the eagerly open mouth above him, this damnably addictive mouth he can’t seem to get enough of, no matter how many times this soft tongue cuts him to shreds, these welcoming lips open to sneer or lie or betray him.

He bites down on Deniz’s lower lip more harshly than intended, helpless frustration driving his teeth into soft flesh. Deniz makes a noise, but it sounds more aroused than pained, and his hips jut forward against Roman’s. He shifts on his elbow, covering Roman’s body more fully. Roman can clearly feel his hard cock dragging against the soft groove just underneath his hip bone as Deniz squirms against him. His own swells in response, stiffening against his belly, and he writhes slightly, seeking contact.

Deniz responds with a muffled groan and pushes down into him. Roman pulls back from his mouth for a moment, drawing a sloppy line of kisses and small bites along Deniz’s jaw to his ear, tasting stubble and salt. The air against his face is cold, but in the dark nest formed by the blanket and their bodies, it’s more than warm enough, the air damp and intimate. Deniz thrusts surreptitiously against him, his cock slippery at the tip. Roman can feel it throbbing, and his own flesh thickens further in response, as if they’re connected by an invisible thread of need. With his tongue, he traces the shell of Deniz’s ear, always a vulnerable spot. When Deniz shudders and releases a soft, strained-sounding moan, Roman tightens his fingers in his hair and rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, bringing them flush and lining up their erections. He hisses through his teeth when his cock bobs against Deniz’s, but the sound is lost in Deniz’s louder gasp. His legs part above Roman’s, allowing him to sink closer still. Roman briefly closes his eyes, luxuriating in the sensation. Deniz’s erection, taut and straining, slides deliciously against his own, precome leaking between their cocks and slicking them up. It takes the edge off the burn of friction as they move together, rocking slowly into each other’s hips as if in a dance. Roman lets go of Deniz’s hair and flattens his palm against the broad expanse of Deniz’s back instead. He traces the line of his spine down to the small of his back and lower to cup the firm swell of a buttock. The muscles flex beneath his fingers, and Roman grins, kneading the twitching flesh.

Deniz is breathing harshly even before Roman pushes his free hand down through the folds of the blankets and between their heated bodies. He curls his fingers around soft, hot skin, exploring the pulsing length pressed up against him from the moist head to the coarse tangle of hair and the soft weight of the balls below. Roman bites his lips to keep in a groan of pleasure as he wraps his hand loosely around both of their eager cocks, filling his palm with their joint, swollen flesh. Deniz, to Roman’s secret gratification, doesn’t bother holding his noises in. He moans loudly against Roman’s cheek, then drags his mouth back to his lips. A soft tongue delves inside, thrusting greedily into the warm depth of his mouth even as Deniz’s hips jerk forwards, shoving his cock into Roman’s hand and against his own erection. Roman slides his hand up and down in a steady but loose-fingered rhythm, almost teasing, feeling the torturously gentle pressure as keenly as Deniz does, and wordlessly taunting him to do something about it.

Deniz has never been one to turn down a challenge, unspoken or not. His legs shift, spreading wider above him so Roman’s hips lie cradled snugly between them. The motion spreads his arse as well, and Roman can’t resist the unspoken invitation; he trails his fingers to the damp cleft between Deniz’s cheeks to tease lightly at his clenched opening.

Deniz starts violently. “No fair,” he pants, and Roman almost laughs.

“No? What are you going to do about it?” he murmurs, fingertips dancing lightly against the tender skin of Deniz’s anus even as his other hand mimics the motion in a fluttering caress against the wet tip of Deniz’s cock.

Deniz shifts against him, muttering something intelligible. Then his right hand slides against Roman’s chest, fingers spreading wide across his ribs before they brush against his hardened nipples, plucking them lightly until Roman arches restlessly beneath him, straining for more. Deniz’s hand slides lower, briefly caressing his stomach before it comes down to join Roman’s hand around their cocks, closing warm and firm over his fingers and tightening his grip. This time, Roman can’t quite suppress a noise when Deniz’s fingers lace with his, slipping so naturally into the rhythm he set and reinforcing it. His shoulders come off the mat as he latches onto Deniz’s neck, sucking hard at the tender skin just below his ear. Deniz makes a strangled noise and tilts his head a bit to give him better access.

Their hands move together as if they were made for this: perfect, synchronised rhythm, the steady tug and squeeze accommodated by the slippery coat of their mingled precome. Roman slides his thumb across the taut crown of first Deniz’s cock, then his own, gathering up the fluid there and spreading it down the lengths of their shafts; smooth touch, delicious friction. Their tangled fingers know exactly when to tighten and when to release, the doubled cup of their palms perfect to thrust into, hot and increasingly slick.

With a half-swallowed curse, Deniz pushes down hard, his open thighs shifting against Roman’s legs, and Roman finds himself briefly wishing they could do more, wishing he could spread Deniz open and fill him up, could feel the tight, clenching heat of him surrounding his cock. No chance of that, of course, with no lube and no condoms to be had.

Still…

He brings his left hand up from Deniz’s arse and brushes his fingers against Deniz’s lips. They open willingly enough, and Roman slides two fingers into the soft, wet warmth of Deniz’s mouth. Deniz blinks down at him, looking flushed and confused for a second; then his lashes lower, and he swirls his tongue around Roman’s fingers in his mouth. Roman stares, transfixed, as Deniz’s cheeks hollow and he sucks on his fingers as if they were some kind of treat. It’s all too easy to imagine his cock there instead, thrusting into that eager mouth while Deniz licks and sucks him down…

But that image conjures others from the recent past, memories that he’s far from comfortable with even after Deniz’s revelation. He pulls his fingers from Deniz’s mouth almost roughly and delves between his buttocks again, teasing and stroking the tight ring of his anus and then increasing the pressure. Prodding and stretching, his index finger sinks past the resistance of the clenched muscle and slips deeper, aided by the slick coating of saliva, and Deniz promptly goes wild above him. With a growl, he pushes back against the intruding digit and then forward again, rubbing his cock hard against Roman’s. He briefly untangles his fingers from Roman’s to make his own explorations; fingers sliding down to cup Roman’s balls, tugging and squeezing them lightly until Roman has to bite his lip and think of ice cold baths to avoid coming on the spot.

When Deniz thrusts back against the finger in his arse again, Roman adds a second one; it slips in easier than the first and Deniz gasps a ragged curse into the cool air. Roman smiles and starts to pump him firmly, front and back, enjoying his frantic moves and noises, the noticeable tremble in the arm that supports his weight. Then Deniz’s hand comes back up to rejoin his own in a greedy, perfect grip around their pulsing cocks, and Roman closes his eyes and abandons thought entirely, giving himself up to the bliss of pure sensation. His cock aches with need as he jerks his hips up into the tight circle of their hands, luxuriating in the slick, silky feeling of Deniz’s heated, throbbing flesh against his. It’s as if every eager motion, every sound from Deniz sends sparks of hot stimulation straight to Roman’s cock; his balls are already tightening, drawing up in anticipation of release.

It can’t last for long. Roman knows they’re close when Deniz starts saying his name in a strained voice; gasping it, really, cursing it, caressing it with his voice as he thrusts into their joint hands and back against Roman’s pumping fingers, muscles tightening as he struggles to hold off his orgasm a bit longer.

“Roman… fuck, please… Roman…”

Deniz has never called him Bunny. Even at his most affectionate, during those times when it seemed like Deniz was physically incapable of leaving his hands off Roman, when hardly a minute ever passed without Deniz touching him, kissing him, pushing up against him, he never was that comfortable with pet names. He used _Schatz_ occasionally, that universally deceptive endearment that combines casual triteness with secret poignancy, meaning both _honey_ and _treasure of my heart_ ; but it always sounded slightly awkward coming from him, slightly affected, like it was something that he felt he ought to say rather than something that he wanted to.

With Deniz, it was the way he said Roman’s name that carried the depth of his true feelings, and Roman loved that he knew that and that no one else did because no one else thought to pay attention to something so mundane as a name; no one else thought to truly listen. _Roman_. Deniz would breathe it into their kisses, roll it around his mouth like dark chocolate laced with pomegranate and rare spices; like now, he’d moan it out at the crest of passion like it was being ripped from him against his will, this word that means him. Like so much about Deniz’s feelings for him, the implications of the way he said his name were hidden in plain sight, too unremarkable to notice for anyone who did not watch and listen as keenly as Roman did. Roman used to mean more than _I love you_ ; it meant _You steal my breath; I need to touch you or I’ll die; You are so beautiful_. It meant untranslatable things, things that someone like Deniz could never say, could never even transfer to the tired cliché of an endearment. _Roman_ meant everything.

Then.

“ _Roman_ ,” Deniz gasps now, his left hand tightening in his hair, and Roman surges up to steal the word from Deniz’s mouth, sucking the trembling syllables of his own name off Deniz’s slack lips as if to reclaim it; as if by doing so, he can unmake the sound he remembers too well, this sound that says things he can no longer afford to believe.

Deniz shudders and jerks against him, his gasping mouth soft and open for the taking. His hips shove forward hard, once, twice, three times. Roman feels his cock twitch, his arse convulsing around Roman’s fingers and his body going rigid as he starts spurting. Hot come spills over and between their fingers, splattering between their bellies. Greedily, Roman swallows the small, desperate moans that vibrate against his lips, then pulls back just enough to watch Deniz’s face, as ever drawn in by the rare sight of Deniz in a moment when it’s impossible for him to lie. The light is rubbish, but Deniz’s face is so close before his that Roman can still see his eyes go unfocused and hazy, can still watch the soft, surprised-looking ‘O’ shape formed by his kiss-swollen lips. A last, erratic thrust pushes Deniz’s hips against his, and then he slumps down, barely managing to catch his weight on his elbow. He’s still jerking Roman off in tandem with Roman’s own hand, but he has lost the rhythm, shaky and trembling above him, drawing in air in great, shaking gasps. Rhythm doesn’t matter now anyway, though, he’s so close. Roman shuts his eyes and frantically pumps into their joint hands, all wet with come, gloriously slippery. He thrusts up fast and hard, Deniz’s hand loosened now but still pumping him, rubbing him, letting him fuck into the slack circle of his fingers and giving one final, perfect squeeze that sends Roman tumbling over the edge. He feels his back arch and his toes curl as his climax takes him, sweeping him up in white-hot pleasure that eclipses the dim blue light of their surroundings. He comes with a hoarse shout, buttocks clenching as his twitching cock shoots streak after streak against Deniz’s already dripping belly. Sparks chase each other down the length of his straining body, so hot that the idea that he was ever cold seems like sheer lunacy. Deniz makes a breathless, encouraging noise and tightens his fingers one more time, milking a final spurt from Roman before he collapses, shuddering and limp; frantic tension reduced to complete jelly within the space of ten heartbeats.

He pulls Deniz down with him. They lie beneath the threadbare blanket, tangled and gasping, their breath still mingling in the small, intimate space they have created. Roman feels pleasantly sated and fucked-out and curiously unburdened by the need to analyse, as if someone has turned him inside out, shaken out all the thoughts, and set them aside for him to reclaim later at his leisure. It’s a nice feeling.

Deniz is a warm, boneless pile of limbs against him, long legs twined with his, one arm under his neck and the other thrown limply across his hip. Roman squirms slightly, grimacing at the cooling slide of sticky wetness between their stomachs. “Deniz,” he says softly.

“Mhm.”

“Can you let me up for a second? We’ve made a mess.”

“Ngh,” Deniz complains, but he moves, rolling over to grope blearily around outside the blanket and eventually returning with his t-shirt clutched in one hand. Roman eyes it doubtfully, then shrugs. “Better yours than mine.” He grabs it from Deniz’s hand and quickly cleans them up as best as he can before tossing the soiled shirt into a corner.

“Best remember not to put that on tomorrow.”

“Mhmm.”

“You’re not even listening, are you.”

“Hmmm.” Deniz’s arm snakes back around his hip, gathering him close. Roman bites his lip, swallows, and closes his eyes. _Sleep now_ , he thinks. _Beat yourself up tomorrow._

***

The first time Deniz wakes that night, it’s to disorienting underwater light and a feeling of panic, real and cold; he doesn’t know why, and if there were any dreams, they’ve already faded. He frowns, rubbing his hand over his face, then tilts his head down.

“Roman? Are you awake?”

There’s no answer from the warm body curled against his. Deniz slowly lifts himself up on his elbow. Bereft of the pillow Deniz’s shoulder provided, Roman murmurs a wordless protest and rearranges his head to cushion it on his folded arms instead.

Deniz stretches to reach for his watch. The digital numbers inform him that it’s nearly four. A long way from midnight, a long way from dawn. He replaces the watch, turns, and looks down at Roman stretched out on the mat.

“Roman?” Deniz tries again, but quietly, not really wanting to disturb. There’s no reaction. Underneath tousled hair, the eldritch light paints shadows of silver and black on the sharp angle of Roman’s cheekbone and nose, sculpting the elegant contours of his neck and shoulder in cool blue marble. Almost involuntarily, Deniz reaches out to touch that curve, wanting to touch to make sure it’s living flesh and not cool stone, but he withdraws his hand before it gets there, unwilling, in the end, to risk waking him.

“You make everything so damn complicated,” he says softly to the blue light, to the delicate curve of Roman’s ear as he sleeps. “Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

***

The third time Roman wakes, it’s to a warm body pressed against his back, the insistent need to pee, and Vanessa’s face above him, wide-eyed with shock. The hollow clanging noise of a door still rings in his ear; it must’ve been what woke him. Vanessa’s just standing there, a bunch of keys in her hands. From somewhere outside comes the buzz of agitated voices.

“Uhm,” says Roman, blinking up into her face and finding himself, for once, at an absolute loss for words. Deniz’s arms are wrapped around him from behind, holding him snugly in place. He jabs an elbow back into his ribs, trying to wake him. Deniz mumbles something unintelligible and pulls him closer, nuzzling into his neck. “Uhm,” Roman says again, somewhat more frantically.

Vanessa opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her eyes slide over them, taking in the ratty blanket covering them, their clothes strewn on the floor. Her mouth twitches in a way that could mean absolutely anything from agony to incredulity to wry amusement. She clears her throat.

“I’ll, ah, just go tell them to call off the search,” she says, jabbing a thumb towards the open door and the corridor beyond. “I can hold them off for a few minutes but you’ll probably want to get dressed.”


	7. Flooding the Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman has accused Deniz, more than once, of never learning a lesson, but now he has to wonder whether that accusation doesn't apply just as surely to himself.

_Flood: The process of resurfacing the rink by spreading warm water evenly across the ice. This softens and fills in the deep cuts in the ice and helps to even out its surface._

  
“Roman!”

Annette is the first through the door, in a whirl of scarves and mad hair, looking for all the world like she just stole a homeless person’s shopping trolley and dressed herself in the first five items she could find. The young doctor who was writing something in Roman’s patient chart looks up, startled. “Now, really…” she begins, but Annette pays her no heed.

“Roman,” she says again, more quietly this time. She’d come to an abrupt halt when she saw him and is now staring at him like she’s never seen him before. There’s movement behind her as Ingo and Lena enter too, with Mike close on their heels. Roman, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, in the process of buttoning up his shirt, straightens up.

After a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, Annette clears her throat and attempts to smooth her wild hair back from her face. She looks from him to the doctor and back. “Erm… are you… are you okay?”

“Would you care if I wasn’t?” Sharp and cutting, the words are out before he can consider them; it’s been too weird a night, and he’s too sore and exhausted to be politic or generous. Still, it gives him a pang when he sees her already pale cheeks blanch more, her lips press together briefly. A part of him – the part that’s grown terribly used to her ignoring him, to meet with nothing but resentment when he tries to approach her – almost expects her to turn on her heel and walk away. Annette only shifts from one foot to the other, though, and clutches her purse more tightly.

“I… we… we were so worried,” she blurts. “When Celine called to say you hadn’t come home… and when we found your bag in the park… God, Roman, I thought-” She swallows the end of her sentence and makes an errant move towards him, then stops in her tracks. Suddenly Roman doesn’t care about getting his own back or how terrible the last months have been; doesn’t care about anything other than the fact that he can’t bear to see her sad.

“Don’t worry,” he says, attempting a smile. “I’m not that easy to kill.”

He’s not even finished moving off the hospital bed before she’s there, wrapping her arms around him tightly enough to make breathing a challenge. “Shit, Roman,” she says against the side of his face, and he realises then that her cheek is damp. “Don’t do this, okay? I thought-”

Again, she doesn’t finish, but she makes a ragged, sobbing sound, and he holds her as tightly as he can, smelling the familiar scent of her herbal shampoo and her too-fruity body spray. For the first time that night, he feels like crying. “Don’t be silly,” he says into her hair, past the lump in his throat. “I’m okay. Shhh, Annette, it’s alright. I’m fine.”

Then the others crowd in, and for long moments there’s nothing but the simple comfort of friends: Mike’s awkward back-patting and Ingo’s rib-crushing hug; Lena’s small bump pressed tightly against him as she embraces him. The entire time, Annette’s not letting go once. She’s clinging to his arm, patting his cheeks, stroking his hair, and honestly Roman’s too exhausted to feel anything but pathetically glad. With a few touches, they redeem themselves. Annette’s talking at him non-stop, random things, unimportant things. Ingo’s poking him in the side repeatedly. “If it’s attention that you’re after, Bunnikins,” he says sternly, “next time just put on _You Can Leave Your Hat On_ and start stripping, okay? I promise I’ll be all over you!” Mike is telling him to take it easy with training for a bit, and Lena insists that he’s not allowed to die before he’s been a godfather. It’s all nonsense, silly, bantering nonsense, and Roman allows himself to bask in it. It just feels so good to have them care.

Annette pounces on the doctor next, demanding to know if he’s okay, and the others follow suit. Roman feels a little sorry for her, beleaguered by the four of them. She’s handling it well, though, nodding and smiling reassuringly at him past his friends.

“Yes, no reason for concern. A mild concussion from the fall, so he should take it easy for a few days, but there are no residual effects of hypothermia. Your young friend did everything right to warm you up.”

Roman almost snorts. She doesn’t know that “everything” included messy, frantic sex on an old training mat, of course, but he supposes that would warm anyone up right quick. He wonders, for the umpteenth time this morning, whether Vanessa might tell anyone how she found them, and tells himself – also for the umpteenth time – that she stands to gain nothing from it, and most likely won’t. Still, the unease is hard to vanquish.

There’s a warm weight against his side. When he looks down, there’s Lena smiling up at him, uncharacteristically cuddly. Roman smiles back, and then remembers the reason why they were all here in the first place. He frowns at her worriedly. “God, I forgot – are you okay? And the tadpole?”

She nods, one hand on her stomach. “Just a bit of cramping. The doctors say it’s normal.” She prods him lightly in the ribs. “No dramatic almost-dying incident like you.”

Roman pokes his tongue out at her. Across the room, Annette is still interrogating the doctor about the best care for mild concussion and whether vast amounts of chocolate mousse can do any damage to hypothermia survivors. Roman is about to speak up and rescue the poor woman, but Ingo gets there first, throwing an arm heavily around his shoulders. “Alright, Annette, you heard the doc – he’s fine,” he calls. “Let’s get this little faker home and wave smelling salts in Her Ladyship’s face or what-have-you.”

Under normal circumstances Roman would glare and whack him one, but when Annette turns and says, with feeling, “Yes – let’s go home,” there’s some silly thing happening with his face, and all he can do is smile.

***

  
Deniz watches them from the corner of the waiting area, where he’s spent the last hour grimacing over bad coffee and thumbing through old magazines. Marian was there earlier, giving him a gruff hug and asking about half a dozen times if he was sure he’s okay; but once reassured that Deniz is fine, he headed off to No.7 to assess the damage from the ice storm and try to regain some of yesterday’s lost business. Deniz could have gone with him, or could have gone home – he is tired enough, having spent most of the night either waking over Roman or engaging in other exhausting activities. But still he dawdles, looking up at every passing nurse or patient, his heart in his throat. When Annette charges along the corridor, with the other three close behind, he ducks into his chair, pulls in his shoulders under a sudden attack of weird guilt. They don’t even notice him, though, making straight for Roman’s room.

Absurdly, Deniz envies them the confidence with which they enter, the easy knowledge that they’re welcome there. He picks another magazine at random and opens it, tries hard to concentrate on an article about Alzheimer’s, and fails. He keeps darting glances at the corridor where the four of them disappeared.

He hasn’t even had a shower yet. He’s feeling grimy and he’s sure his breath is awful, but above all he imagines he can still smell Roman on himself, the scent of him rubbed deep into his skin like a brand. Last night… he grits his teeth. He can’t remember the last time he came that hard. With a muttered curse, he turns the page so violently it rips.

They come out laughing, heads close together and their arms slung around each other. Roman is in the middle, looking tired but happy, and Deniz is on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.

“Roman!” he says, too loudly. They all turn to stare at him, and the smile on Roman’s face shifts into something more cautious.

“Deniz. I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I just…” They’re all looking at him with not-unkind but neutral expressions, clearly taking their cues from Roman, and Deniz feels acutely out of place, shut out from their tight-knit circle. He doesn’t know why that bothers him. “I just wanted to check if you were okay.”

Roman is looking at him with a small line between his brows, a line that Deniz knows all too well. “Yes… I’m fine. The doctor said – she said you did everything right.” Roman gives him a small nod. It looks stiff. “You very likely saved my life last night. Thanks, Deniz.”

“Uhm. No problem.” The words sound stupid to him. Why does everything out of his mouth always sound stupid around Roman? “I’m glad,” he adds, and attempts a smile. “Well, you should… I just wanted to make sure everything was alright. You should probably get some rest.”

Roman nods, slipping his arms into the coat Annette’s holding up. “You too. It’s been a long night.”

There’s no innuendo in his voice, though, no sly hint of suggestion, and Deniz flounders, thrown out of his depth as much by Roman’s coolly impersonal tone as the presence of others. Roman’s shoulders are stiff, his features tinged with exhaustion but otherwise blank. It seems almost impossible to believe that only a few hours ago, they were tangled in a mess of limbs and shared fluids, breathing the same air.

Deniz coughs, takes a step back. “Well… okay. Take care,” he hears himself say. He watches as Roman’s friends whisk him away, arms around his shoulders and everyone talking at once. Roman doesn’t look back.

He sighs, unbalanced by a strange sense of disappointment, and slumps back into the hard waiting room chair. Voices and steps pass by him at intervals while he sits with his head between his hands, staring at the tiled linoleum floor until it blurs. When a hand touches his shoulder, he jumps. It’s Vanessa, looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and genuine concern. She plucks the half-empty Styrofoam cup from his hand and dumps it unceremoniously into a nearby rubbish bin.

“Let’s get some real coffee,” she says, hauling him to his feet, “and then you can tell me just what the fuck is going on.”

***

  
“You’re not feeling nauseous, are you?” Annette asks, pulling the pink blanket up to Roman’s chin and feeling his forehead. “Or any of the other stuff the doctor said to look out for? Double vision? Memory blanks?”

Roman snorts. “No – unfortunately, my memory is clear as crystal.”

“What does that mean?”

Apparently two months of enforced not-talking haven’t dulled Annette’s perception of him in the least. Roman shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He watches her bustle about the flat for a while. It’s just the two of them; Lena’s gone back to her own flat, and Ingo and Mike are at work. Annette’s all over him, insisting that he stay on the couch while she makes tea, flitting to and fro to get him an extra cushion, ruffling his hair in passing.

“If I’d known almost dying is what it would take for you to talk to me again,” he can’t resist saying while she pours hot water into the waiting tea pot, “I’d have tried that sooner.”

As soon as he sees her freeze, sees her turn agonised dark eyes on him, he feels sorry. “I didn’t mean that,” he says immediately, sitting up to go to her, because she looks so upset. “Annette, I didn’t-“

She’s there in a flash, hugging him so fiercely he has trouble breathing. “Don’t,” she says into his neck, her voice suspiciously thick. “I’ve missed you so much.”

***

  
“So now what?” asks Vanessa, frowning at Deniz over the rim of her cup. The stuff that passes for coffee in the hospital cafeteria is only slightly better than what the vending machine spat out, but at least it doesn’t taste like dishwater mixed with cat sick.

Deniz shrugs. “I dunno. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Vanessa makes a disgusted noise. “Like I guess it wasn’t supposed to happen any of the times you jumped his bones while you were with me.” She stops herself, sighs and grimaces at him. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not,” she adds, face darkening, “because _you’re_ the asshole, let’s not forget, but that’s no reason… I don’t mean to keep bringing that up. It’s just kinda a sore point, I guess.” She plays with a packet of sugar, avoids his eyes.

Deniz shakes his head, shoulders hunched forward. “No, you’re right. I _am_ the asshole.” He hesitates. “About what you saw, though. Could you not… I mean, would you mind-”

Vanessa’s ringing cell phone interrupts him. She quickly jams her hand into her pocket to pull it out and almost overturns her chair when she jumps up. “Excuse me for a second.”

Without waiting for his answer, she turns away, the phone already pressed to her ear. “Oliver? Yeah, I’m here.”

She steps over to the window and half-turns her back on the room, so Deniz can’t hear more than a few scraps of the conversation, but even so, her sudden tension is hard to miss, as is the agitation in her voice.

“ _…pull yourself together_ ,” he hears her say, “ _I’ll be there as soon as I can_ ,” and once, her voiced raised in a half-shouted whisper, “ _…doing this for Juli, dammit!_ ”

Deniz watches her familiar body language, the hand she clenches, white-knuckled, around the edge of the windowsill, and wonders what the hell is going on.

***

  
“I meant to apologise, you know,” Annette says, setting a tray of tea and a mountain of cookies down in front of Roman. “About… well, everything, I guess. About being a stubborn bitch who refused to see your side of things. And about not being there when you needed me. I should have been more supportive about the championships.”

Roman pulls his bare feet up underneath him on the couch and tucks the pink blanket around them, even though the heat is all the way up in the flat, and it’s a veritable oven. His head is only throbbing a bit, and he’s not feeling remotely bad enough to merit all this fuss, but he can’t deny that he’s enjoying it more than a little. “Annette, you’ve apologised about a dozen times, and so have I. It’s okay.”

Annette shakes her head, sitting down next to him. “No… no, it’s really not. I was so wrapped up in Diana, it was like I didn’t have room for anything else. I didn’t bother to understand why you did what you did. And your competition… I hardly even paid attention to it on TV, when it was right in front of me. Even when Deniz kept bugging us to watch.”

“Deniz?” Roman asks, perplexed and more than a little alarmed to have the name that’s been spooking round his head spoken out loud.

Annette nods. “Yeah. He dragged us to No. 7 to watch it together and everything.” She snorts, tossing her curls. “I should’ve copped on that I was being a bad friend when your ex of all people was being more supportive than me.”

“Deniz?” Roman repeats stupidly.

Annette nods again, making a face. “I was just going on about Julian being dead, but he was practically crawling into the TV. When you fell, he was yelling and everything… I just looked up in time to see it happen,” she adds, red-faced. “He must’ve seen it coming or something.”

Roman nearly laughs, remembering the mess that particular encounter ended in. Remembering how he lashed out at Deniz, because he was there, and easy to blame; because he hadn’t said _good luck_ when Roman asked him to; because his pretty, lying face seemed to be the perfect target for his frustrations, pretending to give a shit when he, Roman, knew it was all fake.

Except apparently it wasn’t, and now it’s way too late for that to matter anyway. He went away, and when he came back, Deniz was playing the whore, and he treated him accordingly. And ever since, they’ve been back to pushing all each other’s wrong buttons. Fucking irony.

Annette is looking at him with a worried frown. “Roman? What’s wrong?”

“I slept with him last night.” It comes out without his own volition, but it feels so good to have her there, and have her care, that once he’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop.

***

  
“Can I ask you something?” Vanessa says abruptly, when she gets back to their table. Deniz notes that she hasn’t put the cell phone away; instead, she places it almost gently on the table, next to her cooling coffee. Making sure she can answer it at a second’s ring, it looks like. Deniz frowns.

“Sure.”

“Were you ever in love with me?”

Even after knowing her for a year and a half, her bluntness sometimes still catches him off-guard. “Er… what?”

She scowls at him. “It’s a simple enough question. Were you? I mean, really?”

Deniz stares at her, aghast. “What kinda question is that? Of course I was…”

Vanessa slams her hand down on the table so hard that her cup jumps in its saucer, spilling a bit of coffee. “Damn it, Deniz, I’m not trying to get you to tell me something you think I want to hear!” she all but snarls. “When are you going to get that when people ask you shit like this, it’s not about not upsetting them and getting off easy? It’s about saying what you goddamn _mean_! You moron,” she adds, staring at him like he’s about one wrong word from being flayed alive. Deniz swallows.

“I… I don’t know,” he says slowly, and even that much feels like a betrayal. “I mean, I know things weren’t always great with us but… I don’t know, we _get_ each other, you know? It was like… things finally going right. Falling into place, you know? We’re into the same stuff, and you’re fun, and cute, and it was like… okay to screw up. I mean, not _okay_ ,” he amends hastily, with the glum feeling that he’s just digging himself in deeper with every word. “Just… like, the world didn’t end if I did something wrong. You’d just… you get me, and I didn’t have to constantly… I mean, we didn’t have to talk everything to death. Things just fit between us.”

Vanessa’s staring at him with something very like disgust. “In other words, you didn’t have to try very hard,” she says. “Yay you.”

“That’s not what I-“

She cuts him off with a flat gesture of her hand. “No, I get it, I do. But… those things you’re talking about, like being into the same stuff and things – those are ideal for a best friend. Which is great, just… I wish I’d known you saw it like that before I let myself believe you loved me. Would have saved us both a whole lot of grief.” She pauses. “Us, and Roman too.”

Deniz opens his mouth to protest but no sound comes out. Vanessa shakes her head, sending her hair flying. “I have bleeding awful taste in people,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him, but something about the slump of her shoulders, about the way she curls her hand around her cell phone, makes something click into place.

“Vanessa…” he starts, frowning. He reaches out, puts a hand on her shoulder. It feels hard like rock under his touch. “Are you… what’s going on with you and Oliver?”

“Nothing!” she says fiercely, sitting up and slapping his hand away. Deniz sits back and cocks his head at her, lifting his brows. She glares at him for a long moment, then sags visibly, pushing the heel of one hand into her scrunched-up eyes. “I’m… I’m helping him get over a drug problem.”

Deniz listens as she gives him the story in a nutshell, feeling his brows wander higher up his forehead by the second. By the end, it feels like they’re way up in his hair.

“Abducted to Africa, hooked on heroin, the girlfriend’s out of town, and now you’re helping him through withdrawal in secret,” he sums up incredulously, once she’s done. “Jesus, Vanessa. Do you live in a fucking soap or something?”

“Don’t even,” she murmurs.

Deniz leans forward to put one hand over hers. “And now you’re what, falling for him? Dr. Oliver Crashing Bore Sommer, of all people? Isn’t he like, I don’t know, forty?”

Vanessa whips her hand away and gives him a glower that’s fit to kill. “He’s not a crashing bore, he’s really sweet. And he’s thirty-one. And it’s none of your fucking business anyway.”

“And we just established you have utterly crap taste,” Deniz states wryly.

“Obviously,” Vanessa huffs. “Anyway, we weren’t talking about me. I was asking because…” She hesitates, running a finger around the rim of her cup; then she visibly squares her shoulders and lifts her eyes to his. “Since obviously you couldn’t leave your hands off Roman while you were getting together with me, while you were with me, and after we were over… I don’t know, Deniz, I just gotta ask: If you’re that mad about him, why did you break up with him in the first place? Why did you get with me?”

Deniz stares helplessly, struck mute by the frankness of her expression and her question, asked without accusation or mockery. He’s relieved when her cell phone rings again, when she’s called away by a man even less suited to her than he was, because it spares him from having to tell her that he honestly doesn’t know.

***

  
“And now?” Annette asks softly.

Roman shrugs, and tugs at her arm until she settles next to him and he can tuck his head atop hers. “Now I get over it, I guess,” he says. “Again.”

Annette reaches over to take his hand, interlacing her fingers with his. “Can you?” she asks.

Above the soft cloud of her hair, Roman blinks and squares his jaw. “I have to.”

***

  
And that could be that, Deniz supposes; another red couch encounter minus the actual red couch, and the aftermath up to him to get over, or forget, or whatever it is that he usually does.

Instead, the days between Christmas and New Year’s pass in a haze of confusion and frustration, and forgetting seems to be the last thing he can actually do.

At night, his dreams are more vivid than the ones he had when he first discovered the dubitable joys of puberty: dreams in which Roman’s familiar weight pins him down, Roman’s hands strong and sure around his captured wrists, Roman’s lashes brush against his cheek as he whispers things into his mouth – delicious, filthy things that make Deniz buck and writhe beneath him, begging him to do them all. _Give me your mouth, Süßer_ , Roman croons in those dreams, _Spread your legs, touch yourself_ , and _Bend over now, let me see how eager you are_. Deniz wakes from those dreams trembling and hard as a rock, or already spent, his sheets a mess like they haven’t been since he was thirteen. He wakes with the sound of Roman’s moans in his ears, the taste of his nipples in his mouth. He gasps curses into the darkness of his room, pummels his pillows and takes cold showers at three in the morning. It doesn’t help. Every one of his senses is wide open and defenceless, and Roman is like water, pouring through and filling him up.

 

***

  
The whole thing is old Steinkamp’s idea, as usual. One morning halfway between Christmas and New Year’s, he has everyone gather in his office and cheerfully announces that he’s booked a cruise on Baldeneysee for everyone on New Year’s Eve, and by everyone, he means _everyone._

“Champagne, open buffet, fireworks, everything’s covered!” he announces grandly, followed by excited twittering from the office girls. “I’ve arranged for press coverage – there’ll be a photo shoot to promote our skating and hockey teams, we’ll have a couple of interviews, and it will set Steinkamp Sports & Wellness off on a successful new year with a boost of energy! This will be our year, people! I want competitions, I want medals, and I want your best.”

“What if we already have plans for New Year’s Eve?” Mike interjects rudely.

Richard blusters, but his wife steps in smoothly as ever, coolly nodding her dark head at Mike. “This is a prime promotion opportunity for our teams, Mr. Hartwig, and a celebration of the spirit of commitment and mutual encouragement that makes Steinkamp Sports & Wellness stand out among its competitors. I’m sure you won’t mind rearranging your plans.”

Mike looks like he’s swallowed a pool noodle, but he’s smart enough not to argue. Simone nods as if that settles all and briskly moves on to announcing the details. The lake’s just an hour’s drive out of town, and the Steinkamps will arrange for transportation if needed. Roman smiles dutifully when Simone’s routine business smile brushes over him, but out of the corner of his mouth he murmurs to Ingo, “A cruise. That’s great. Do you have any idea how seasick I get?”

Ingo pats him on the back. “Cheer up, Bunny. You can always fling yourself off the boat and swim for shore.”

“Uh huh. And freeze to death. No thanks. Been there, done that.”

“Oh well, nothing to worry about. Your ex will be there to save you, just like last time.”

Roman elbows him in the ribs, hard. Ingo howls in wounded exaggeration and earns a glare from Simone Steinkamp and the attention of the entire room. Deniz is standing across from them, towering behind the giggling receptionists. Roman feels his gaze as keenly as a physical touch. He ignores it, just like he’s been ignoring everything to do with Deniz for a week since the ice storm.

He wishes he could claim it’s getting easier.

***

  
“Are you going?” Deniz asks Vanessa as the hockey team leaves the Centre in a bustle of shoving and joking. Everyone’s in a good mood – practice went well today, and the team’s excited about the prospect of celebrating New Year’s Eve in style.

Vanessa gives him an incredulous look. “Hello? I’m team captain and my parents are organising this shindig. If I don’t go, I won’t hear the end of it until one of us drops dead.” She hoists her bag higher on her shoulder. “If they think I’m gonna dress up all posh and be presentable, though, they’ve got another thing coming.”

Deniz grins. “Think they’ll want an interview from you?”

“I doubt it. My parents will make sure I’m not given the opportunity to embarrass them.”  
She looks at him sideways. “What about you?”

Deniz shrugs, stepping aside to let the over-excited twins race past him down the stairs. “I don’t know yet. Depends on whether my Dad has any plans.”

  
As it turns out, Marian does have plans, but they don’t involve quality time with the family. When Deniz comes home, he finds his father haphazardly stuffing clothes into a black canvas bag. He barely looks up when Deniz comes in. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hi.” Deniz looks around, frowning, at the clothes scattered on the bed. There’s a briefcase there, too, and a smaller case lying half-open, with the dull glimmer of metal inside. Deniz hasn’t seen it often, but he recognises it well enough. These are the tools of his father’s old trade.

He frowns. “What’s going on?”

Marian doesn’t look up. “I have to go to France.”

“What? Right now?”

“Yeah, I’m catching the next flight out.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Etienne. He needs my help.”

Deniz sits down on the corner of the bed that’s most out of the way of Marian’s bustling. There’s an energy about his father that he hasn’t seen in a while; a kind of charged tension that stiffens his spine, a keen sense of determination. It alarms Deniz no small amount. “Is he in trouble?”

Marian pauses, hand hovering above a rolled-up pair of dark socks. All the clothes he’s packing are dark, Deniz notices. Dark, and non-descript. “Not as such, no,” his father replies slowly. “Not yet, at any rate. But I need to go. I owe him, you know?”

Deniz doesn’t, but he nods anyway. “For how long?”

“I don’t know yet. A few days. Maybe a week.”

“Oh.” He’s not sure why he feels a small pang of disappointment. “So you won’t be around for New Year’s Eve?”

“Probably not,” Marian says, his mind clearly somewhere else. He snaps the briefcase shut with rather too much force, then straightens up and looks at Deniz. His face, dark with a frown, clears a bit. “Don’t bother about keeping the bar open – we’ll just extend the holidays a bit. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve got other plans for New Year’s Eve.”

As ever when he talks about his son’s social life these days, his voice is carefully neutral, so markedly without a note of disapproval that in a perverse way, the absence of it is almost disapproval in and of itself.

Deniz feels chagrin well up in him. Why is everyone so keen on giving him a hard time lately? “Dad…” he starts, unable to keep a slight note of impatience out of his voice. “About the escort service – I stopped working for them.”

His father doesn’t look up from his packing. “Yeah?” he asks, in that same neutral tone. It isn’t outright disbelief, but it pisses Deniz off anyway.

“Yeah,” he confirms curtly. “Over a month ago. So you could stop giving me the cold shoulder over it, you know.”

Marian does pause at that, giving his son a level stare. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“What would you call it?” demands Deniz.

For a moment, his father looks as if he’s about to explode. Then his shoulders sag slightly, and he sighs. “Deniz, for heaven’s sake, I’m not giving you the cold shoulder. I suspected you’d given it up, or I was hoping so, and I’m glad, I really am. But if you’re expecting me to jump for joy and hand you an award…” He shrugs, turning a shirt over and over in his hands and avoiding Deniz’s eyes. “Look, it’s just been one thing after another with you this year. Modelling, parties, drugs, dropping out of school, screwing around on people, and now this. And sooner or later you’d come along and apologise, and for a little while, things would be okay – until your next phenomenally stupid gig.”

“That’s not fair, man,” Deniz interrupts, stung. “I’ve been-”

“That’s not the point!” Marian interrupts him exasperatedly. “Deniz, you’re my son and I love you, but all you’ve been doing lately is fuck up, so I’m sorry if I’m having a bit of a hard time trusting you right now. Before I break out the fanfares and back-pounding, you’re going to have to show me that you actually mean it this time.”

“Dude, what do you think I’m trying to do?” Deniz hates the way his voice rises and almost cracks. He balls his fists and stares up at his father, feeling rebellious and stupid and about seven years old.

Marian pulls the zipper shut on his bag at last and straightens up to look at him. “Keep trying, _çocuk_ ,” he says, but he says it gently, and his small, rueful half-smile keeps the words from being cold. “Because I’m glad you are. But don’t do it to prove anything to me. Do it for yourself – because your life is in some serious need of sorting, Deniz. In the meantime, though, I’ve got my own stuff to sort, and a plane to catch.”

He comes around the bed and pulls Deniz up into a gruff hug. For a second or two, Deniz just stands there rigid and resentful; then he relaxes slightly, puts his arms around his father’s shoulders. They stand like that for a long moment, more awkward than they used to be. Then Marian gives him a pat on the shoulder and steps back. “See you next year,” he says, and with that he’s gone.

***

  
Of course, as is somewhat common with any plan concerning Steinkamp Sports & Wellness, there are complications.

“Uhm,” says Roman as they climb out of Ingo’s old rust bucket and stand in the parking lot overlooking the lake.

Lena, who got out before him, nods. “Yep,” she agrees.

The hockey team is already there, shuttled to the lakeside hotel in a company-chartered bus. They jostle and almost fall over themselves in their hurry to get out. Roman notes Deniz’s dark head, half a head above everyone else’s, then resolutely looks away. The sight before them is met with mingled cries of “boo” and “awesome!” Little red-haired Nick, ever a master of stating the obvious, exclaims, “Dude, it’s frozen, man!”

It is. Whether from the ice storm or simply by virtue of the cold, the lake stretches before them as a glassy, silent expanse, ringed by frozen trees. A thin crust of hard snow covers the embankment leading down to it but the lake itself looks as smooth as if it had been expertly flooded: a massive ice rink, pristine and white under the unfriendly winter sky.

Richard Steinkamp is making his way towards them across the parking lot, loudly explaining something about “unforeseen developments”, “couldn’t have known”, “very fickle weather conditions”, etc. etc.

“And all the mentions of it being the coldest winter in decades didn’t tip you off that the lake might be frozen?” Vanessa inquires innocently. Roman hides a grin behind his hand.

Vanessa’s father glares at her, then makes a grand gesture that takes in the hotel rising behind him on the lakeshore as well as the lake itself. “Well, obviously this nixes the cruise, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t still enjoy a memorable New Year’s Eve! My wife and I have made arrangements for everything to take place at the hotel instead – we’ll have the buffet there, rooms have been booked, and the staff is ready to get some serious fireworks going. And the best thing is” – he pauses, grinning, for dramatic effect – “the hotel rents out skating shoes, so we can have our actual New Year’s celebration on the ice! How’s that, ey? Is that fitting? Is that awesome?”

Among the general hollering and applause, Roman’s aghast exclamation of _“Rented skates?!”_ goes unheard.

  
The whole thing’s not off for the best start, and the frozen lake is the least of it.

After everyone’s gorged themselves on the buffet, they meet in the lobby for the requisite interviews and photo shoots. The reporter interviewing Roman clearly thinks that a desperate skater nearing the end of his career makes a better story than one recovering from a one-time slip. Her questions focus almost exclusively on his performance at the German Championships, and no matter how many times Roman tries to steer her into more favourable waters – first with charm and then with cool affront – she just brings the conversation back to the embarrassment of September and his age. At one point Roman actually has to remind her that he’s twenty-six, not sixty, and that Nurejev danced until he dropped dead, but of course she only uses that to segue into the other thing he has in common with Nurejev, and then it’s all gay this and “ _has it harmed your image_ ” that. (“Yes,” Roman says sardonically, “as we all know, no one’s ever heard of a gay figure skater before.”)

By the time the interview’s done, Roman’s already in a bad mood, and the photo shoot doesn’t improve it any. Everything takes much too long to set up, the make-up artist appears to have no clue what she’s doing, and there's something wrong with the lighting. The photographer is young and bossy, not content with ordering them around but actually coming to shove people next to each other and position them with more force than necessary. When he takes Roman’s shoulders for the fifth time to adjust his stance, Roman nearly snarls at him; it’s only Simone Steinkamp’s raised eyebrows that prevent him. The shoot seems to take forever, and when it’s finally over, Roman makes a beeline for the bar.

“Remind me never to do this again,” he grumbles to Ingo and Annette, who are already there, giggling and feeding each other canapés. “Bloody media. I feel like an old, fat, unsuccessful farce. Who’s gay, and therefore a pervert. And who can’t pose for pictures,” he adds glumly.

Ingo shoves a champagne flute into his hand. “If the shoe fits,” he says cheerfully. Roman glares at him, and Ingo rolls his eyes, puts a hand around his neck and hauls him in to plant a loud, wet kiss on his forehead. “You’re graceful, eternally young, and still a rising star on the firmament, princess. And I covet you madly. Better?”

“You’re all talk, Zadek,” grumbles Roman, at which Ingo proceeds to straddle his lap to demonstrate otherwise. It ends with Annette having to step in to stake a claim, which in turn deteriorates into a tickle fight, a deplorable amount of spilled champagne, and the three of them flushed and laughing. It makes Roman feel a little bit better – at least until Richard Steinkamp clinks a spoon against his champagne flute, grins like a loon, and announces that since midnight is only half an hour away, they should make their way out onto the lake to watch the fireworks.

 _“Rented skates,”_ Roman moans again, but he’s already being whisked outside by the others, and only barely has time to grab an extra glass of champagne.

***

  
The moment they step on the ice is when things start to go wrong. Up until then, Deniz has been doing alright – the whole gig is kind of lame, but at least there’s free food and booze and admittedly the lake is pretty, illuminated by the floodlights installed all along the shore below the hotel. A stall has been set up next to the pier, providing mulled wine and more champagne, and everyone spills out onto the ice in rented skates, laughing at the obvious difference between the professionals and amateurs. Hotel employees busy themselves with fireworks preparations on the shore, while the hockey team chases flat rocks across the frozen lake with sticks, laughing and jostling each other.

Deniz catches sight of Vanessa, gliding glumly along near the pier with her eyes fixed on Oliver and Juli. They are skidding across the ice clumsy and laughing, arm in arm and almost falling more than once. Juli’s hair hangs down in a cloud of night-dark curls, and just as Deniz looks on, Oliver kisses her upturned, giggling face. The expression on Vanessa’s face is enough to set Deniz on a course towards her, but he is unexpectedly caught up by his team, who drag him away across the uneven lake ice, laughing and shouting. Deniz tries to protest, but he’s had more than his share of champagne by now, and it’s all too easy to get caught up in the familiar jostle and shove, the pursuit of a small object on the ice, even make-believe. For long moments, he dodges and charges, narrowly avoiding first the Steinkamps, who cling to each other in alarm, and then the trio of receptionists, who flail around wildly, sloshing champagne everywhere.

He surfaces at long last on the other side of the gaggle of clumsy skaters, winning free from his team for a breather, and almost runs smack into Nick doing pirouettes.

“Whoa!” Deniz just barely manages to side-skate him. Nick, arms momentarily flailing, spins around his own axis and then scratches to a halt. As pirouettes go, it isn’t even bad.

Deniz stares at him, frowning. “Nick, dude. The hell? When I told you to practise your defence, I did not mean scare the other team off with your interpretation of Swan Lake. What are you doing?”

Nick looks embarrassed only for a second, then he shrugs and grins his goofy grin. “Busted.”

Deniz raises his brows at him. Nick gestures towards the rest of the hockey team, where his sister is engaged in a grappling match with hulking Alex and, improbably, winning. “Tascha got skating lessons when we were little. I whined and whined until our parents let me join in. It was really fun… until our dad found out that I enjoyed it more than Tascha did.” He grins again, but this time it has a rueful, almost grim tinge to it. “Apparently it’s okay for a girl to like hockey, but not so much for a guy to like figure skating.”

Deniz snorts. “Well, that explains why you make such a shite hockey player.”

“Hey!” protests Nick, but at a single glance from Deniz, he bursts out laughing, throwing up his hands. “Okay, okay. Did I say busted?” He goes serious from one second to the next, twisting his hands in front of him awkwardly. “Er, just… if my dad ever drops by to watch hockey practice, would you mind not telling him? Like… it’s just, he’s a bit…”

He trails off, and Deniz nods, bemused. “Sure thing. Just lay off the pirouettes during training, okay?”

Grinning, Nick spins once around his own axis, not flawlessly but fairly smoothly. “No worries. I keep a low profile usually – nobody knows but Tascha. I just got… kinda inspired, you know?” He holds out his arms for balance and nods across the frozen lake.

Following his gaze, Deniz spots Roman, farther out on the ice, almost beyond the reach of the floodlight. He’s gliding along in a slow arc one leg raised behind him in an arabesque that he manages to make look almost casual. Seeing him unexpectedly like that – the taut, familiar lines of his body, that effortless grace – hits Deniz like a sudden punch to the gut. He doesn’t know why. It’s not like he doesn’t see Roman skating almost every day. It’s not like it’s even _new._

Except it is. It’s always new, and it’s always bloody breathtaking. Sometimes he thinks – callously, resentfully, horribly – that if Roman had been allowed to skate while they were together, if he’d had the full force of this thing that makes up so much of him, Deniz could never have left. He’d have been drawn in even as he is now, every day, by every spin and leap; as if they spun a web or told a story, told things about Roman that he could never say, no matter how many words gush out of him on any given day. Out on the ice, he’s mesmerising; he’s spellbinding and lovely and utterly himself. And the thought that Deniz has given up the right to go out there and put his hands, his mouth on him, that he’s no longer allowed to break into this complicated web of grace and motion, fills Deniz with frustrated, yearning need.

He watches Roman, and for a moment, it’s as if the past year has spilled away like warm water flooding the ice during resurfacing, the even scrape of a Zamboni machine smoothing out the rills carved by harsh blades. For a second, all the unforgivable things he’s done and said, all the bitterness and retaliation, the tears and the anger are gone. Time rolls back like an unfurling canvas, even onto this day last year, when everything started to go to hell, the night he wasn’t where he ought to have been. The night he started to fail.

Roman pulls out of a loop and Deniz feels that pull somewhere inside him, relentless and surprisingly painful. The reaction it elicits is the same as the first time he saw Roman on the ice, that day he wandered into the rink to apologise to Nadja and saw him lifting into a jump: nothing more complicated than awe and a keen appreciation for beauty.

All around them, people are milling, raising their voices for a raucous countdown: _“Ten – nine – eight – seven – six…”_

Above their voices, Nick has to shout to still be heard. “How does he do that?” he yells, elbowing Deniz in the side just as Roman spins effortlessly backwards, towards the crowd without looking at them, his eyes on the sky in expectation of fireworks.

Deniz doesn’t bother raising his own voice. “Let’s find out,” he says, pushing off.

His skates carry him across the ice as surely as they ever have, curving smoothly around the small groups of people who laugh and hug when the shrill howl of rising fireworks starts above them, following by a staccato of popping as fantastic shapes blossom into colour in the night sky.

Roman is still back-skating at a sure and leisurely pace, meandering from side to side with his face raised to the sky. His arms are half-lifted, the broad line of his shoulders relaxed and straight. Among the mingled cries of _“Happy New Year!”_ and the continuous explosions of the fireworks, the scraping sound of Deniz’s skates goes unheard. It’s the easiest thing in the world to come up behind Roman and curl his fingers around Roman’s hands; to let their opposing momentums carry them into a criss-cross loop, Deniz’s arm coming up over Roman’s head as he spins himself around and in front of him.

For a second or five, Roman actually goes with it, spins in a short, perfect circle, their hands still locked and now crossed at the wrists. Then he leans slightly sideways and his skates come to a scraping halt, breaking the momentum of the spin. He stares up at Deniz, the fireworks pouring twitching colours across his face. “What are you doing?”

***

  
Deniz shrugs, offers a lopsided smile. “Checking if I’ve got figure-skating potential?”

Roman snorts. “You don’t, trust me.” He tugs a little on his hands, trying to pull free of Deniz’s grip, but Deniz holds on, oblivious. The sharp contrast of the floodlights and the darkness underlines the paleness of his skin and turns his eyes bottomless and night-black; it outlines the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the full swell of his lips. It isn’t fair that someone capable of such depths of corruption as Deniz Öztürk should look so innocent, so crisp and unmarred by the things he’s done. He should be out in scars and pockmarks; those wide eyes should be jaded and sunken, those full lips gone droopy and sour with the constant drain of lies. That clear brow should bear a brand to give testimony to his crimes, spelling _liar, traitor, cheat._

He’s looking at Roman with a puzzled little frown, and Roman sighs, suddenly feeling every bit as old as that interviewer made him out to be. “What do you want?”

“I…” Deniz clears his throat, eyes darting behind Roman and then back. Cynically, Roman wonders if he’s checking for witnesses to this little hand-holding exercise. He tugs again, a little harder, and Deniz’s fingers close tighter around his, pulling him back forcefully enough that he’s dragged forward on his skates. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Roman stares at him, caught off-guard by the mildly accusatory tone. It takes a moment for indignation to sink in. “Deniz, I know it’s a hard concept for you to grasp, but everything does not revolve around you. I’ve been a little busy with minor things like recovering from almost dying and celebrating Christmas with my friends.”

“Still,” Deniz insists, with that single-minded stubbornness that Roman once found endearing. “When I see you at the Centre… you’ve barely even said hi. And we haven’t… I mean, about… about last week, we haven’t-”

“What?” interrupts Roman sharply. “We haven’t talked about it? Haven’t had a serious heart-to-heart? Why, no, we haven’t. Isn’t that how you usually prefer to handle these things? _Oops, we fucked, quick, let’s forget about it_?”

Deniz frowns harder. He’s still not let go of Roman’s hands. “I thought we could-”

He trails off with a helpless little shrug and Roman can practically hear the thin thread of his already strained patience snap. Above them, more fireworks explode as if to provide a suitable soundtrack for it. “You thought we could what? Hang out? Be friends? Friends who kiss? Friends who fuck? What, Deniz, what the hell did you think we could?”

He sees the convulsive movement of Deniz’s Adam’s apple as he swallows and hates, with desperate intensity, the fact that he has a slew of memories connected with that simple motion; that everything Deniz does or says corresponds to a myriad of related images Roman once obsessively stored away and now can’t seem to delete.

“I don’t know,” Deniz says, so quietly that it’s almost lost beneath the sounds of celebration nearby. Roman sighs in disgust.

“No, of course not. That’s been your problem all along, hasn’t it? You never bloody know.” He yanks on his captured hands hard, meaning business this time, but he is unprepared for Deniz’s simultaneous pull towards him. For a moment, things deteriorate into a messy tussle, with both of them tugging to and fro. The ice is not made for standing your ground; they slide and circle in an involuntary dance, propelled by the sharp edge of their skates. Roman plants his feet sideways, bends one knee, and almost wins free in a sharp sideways scrape, but that’s when Deniz suddenly lurches forward and hooks one leg behind Roman’s in a blunt but effective move, blocking his escape. Before he can regain his balance, he’s tugged forward, and the indignant noise he makes is muffled against Deniz’s lips.

***

  
For a long, heady moment, Roman doesn’t resist. His lips are soft and slack with surprise, mingling the salty tang of salmon with the sweetness of champagne. It takes all the willpower Deniz possesses not to thrust his tongue inside and savour every nuance of those tastes, adding his own into the mix until they’re indistinguishable. Instead, he keeps still, holding Roman trapped against him with his hands around his wrists and only pressing lip to lip with barely any motion. It’s sweet and torturous and for a second everything feels right, until Roman violently twists his hands free and shoves him back so sharply that he almost falls.

“What _the hell_ are you doing?” He’s all but spitting with fury, every line of his body rigid with indignation. His nose and ears are red with cold and his eyes have narrowed to hard slivers, and all Deniz can think of is how much he wants him, and how insane it drives him to have that hockey stick’s distance between them.

“I do know that I want you,” he blurts, because there isn’t room for anything else in his mind. “And I know you still want me,” he challenges, closing the distance by two quick diagonal moves. Roman evades him effortlessly with a sideways skate, spins, scrapes to a halt. He stares at Deniz like he’s grown a second head.

“My god,” he murmurs, as if to himself. “Your ego is literally unbelievable.” Deniz opens his mouth to protest, but Roman cuts him off. “For fuck’s sake, Deniz, I know you’re an asshole but were you always this stupid? Yes, I still want you, and maybe that will never change – and do you know what that means? It means _nothing_. Nothing I couldn’t get from any random fling in any gay bar in this town, or from someone I paid, for that matter.” Deniz feels the blood rush into his cheeks at that, remembering the locker room, the crumpled bank notes flung into his face. He’s not sure he’s ever going to get that image out of his head.

Roman pauses for a moment, staring at him with an odd mixture of anger and regret; his mouth twists sideways, but he doesn’t stop. “If I want casual sex, I can get my own… and without the baggage, okay? So stop making wounded puppy eyes at me. I’m sick of you acting like I’m the bad guy for not cutting you any slack. And I’m sick of you pretending like you give a damn about _me_ , because…” He pauses and sighs, looking away for the first time, out into the dark of the frozen lake, and finishes in a slightly hoarse voice, “because honestly, after everything that happened last year, I’m not sure you’re capable of giving a damn about anyone but yourself.”

“I do give a damn!” It comes out sounding childish, a ragged cry of offence without anything to back it up, and for all that he means it, he’s struck dumb by the minute shift in Roman’s face, the slight cocking of a fine brow.

“Do you?’ Roman says calmly. Despite his politely incredulous tone, Deniz keenly senses the opening there, even now, the chance to offer something real; to explain and lay out the tangled threads of his emotions. But he’s never had Roman’s knack for words, and before that calm, shadowed gaze, he falls back into the helpless silence that condemns him.

Roman nods, and his shoulders sag slightly, losing the rigid edge of anger. “Nothing to say? Surprise, surprise.” He takes a deep breath and Deniz absurdly feels as if the air he draws is being pulled from his own lungs, leaving him to hang breathlessly on Roman’s next words, even if they will shatter him.

Instead, Roman just looks at him for another long moment, then tilts his head a little, the corners of his mouth twitching into a wry, resigned smile. He kicks into motion, sailing around Deniz in a smooth, tight circle; halts just behind his shoulder and leans over to murmur in his ear. “Happy New Year then, I guess.”

He’s close enough that Deniz can feel the warmth of his breath in his ear, close enough to reach out and touch him, even pull him back in if he tried; but at the same time he might as well be on the far shore of the lake. Deniz stands rooted to the spot, skates melded to the unfamiliar ice, and stares after Roman as he skates away. Above him, colours explode in the nightly sky and all around him people revel in good wishes, laughter and embraces, but he feels frozen and breathless, as if he’s somewhere else entirely, somewhere that honest good cheer cannot reach.

***

  
The hotel’s lobby is nearly deserted, except for a small party of other guests laughing drunkenly together and Petra making out with the tall new guy on the hockey team in a corner. Good old Petra, Roman thinks cynically as he makes for the bar. She never does pass up an opportunity. The lighting’s been dimmed to nothing more than an intimate, warm orange glow.

The buffet resembles a battlefield. Unceremoniously dumping the rented skates beside a barstool, Roman foregoes the shambles of leftover canapés and finger food and makes straight for the champagne. He empties one glass almost in one gulp and then swills a large mouthful of a second one around his mouth for long seconds before swallowing. The glass of the flute is blessedly cool. Roman lets his head sink forward, rolling the glass across his heated forehead, and wonders, eyes closed, whether Deniz fucking Öztürk is ever going to stop getting to him.

Sometimes it feels like he’s spent years in various stages of Deniz-related obsession, either caught in the throes of infatuation or dragged down by the bitterness of disenchantment, the difficulty of extraction. He’s all but convinced himself that his perception was off from the start: that the promise he thought he saw in Deniz was never really there, just wishful thinking on his part. At times, he barely remembers that period of bliss when he was so delighted with everything Deniz did or said to him; when the potential of the man emerging from the shell of that clueless boy seemed real and worth waiting for. Even when it became all too apparent that that potential was not about to be fulfilled – or at least not anytime soon – Roman hung on long past the point of prudence or self-preservation… and if he’s honest with himself, a part of him is hanging on still, much as he resents it.

He’s accused Deniz, more than once, of never learning a lesson, but now, barely an hour into this new year, he has to wonder whether that accusation doesn’t apply just as surely to himself. How many times has he resolved to turn his back on Deniz Öztürk and the irredeemable shambles of their relationship? How many times has he regained his feet, squared his shoulders and soldiered on, only to let himself be bowled over by the force of his ex’s damnable charm – a charm applied so thoughtlessly, and so utterly without consequence or commitment?

It would be so much easier if Deniz just let him believe that that was all there was to him. If Roman could stop imagining he saw glimpses of that obscured potential, even now. But every time he thinks he’s finally put this obsession behind him, every time he’s convinced himself that Deniz is all glittering veneer with no substance behind it, there’s some sly, small detail that trips him up and halts him in his steps: a touch of genuine concern; the desperate panic Deniz showed that night of the ice storm; Annette’s casual disclosure that Deniz did care about his performance.

“God damn it,” he mutters to himself, pressing the cold, wet glass to his forehead so hard that it hurts. How many times is he going to have to get over this pointless, aimless, useless love before he’s actually over it?

  
“Excuse me?” Beneath the banging of late fireworks outside and the giggles of the other guests across the room, the sound of a voice next to him is so unexpected that Roman nearly drops his glass. As it is, he spills some champagne on his hand and curses, shaking it off. “Dammit!”

Looking up, he glares at the offender, who’s standing a few feet from him, looking caught out. It’s the demanding photographer from earlier, a sight that doesn’t exactly improve Roman’s mood. “Could you not sneak up on me like that?”

“I’m sorry.” The photographer pats at various pockets. “I’ve got some tissues somewhere if you-”

Roman waves him off, wiping his hand against his other sleeve. “It’s fine. You just startled me. What do you want?”

The other man pauses, hands still poised over his pockets. “Uhm – I was wondering if I could take your picture.” He half-lifts the camera dangling in front of his chest as if he needs to clarify what sort of picture he means.

Roman frowns. “More pictures? I thought we were done. You must’ve taken a few dozen in the lobby.”

“More like a couple hundred.” The young man grins, then coughs. “No, I meant. Uhm. I meant _your_ picture.”

Roman blinks and says the first thing that comes into his head. “My… whatever for?”

The photographer shifts on his feet, blocking more of the light, and shrugs a shoulder. “Not for publication. For my portfolio. I do portraits on the side… kind of – you know, strangers. Interesting faces.”

Roman almost snorts. “And my face is interesting, is it.”

“Very,” the photographer says matter-of-factly. It’s the absence of mockery in his voice that gives Roman pause for long enough to look at him more closely. He looks to be in his late twenties and rather scruffy for the occasion, in washed-out jeans and a shabby-looking corduroy jacket. His dark hair is a tad too long and could use a wash, and the stubble has clearly crossed the border from “sexy three-day growth” into “just lazy”. Not Roman’s type, even if _Let me take your picture_ were indeed the cheap pick-up line it sounds like.

Roman shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m not really feeling photogenic tonight.” It’s more than that; he’s feeling utterly drained, as if the encounter with Deniz has sapped him of all strength or charm, and having that captured on film is about the last thing he needs right now.

The photographer makes an amused noise, not quite a full laugh, more like a snort. “It’s not a passport picture – photogenic’s not really the issue. I’d just like to snap a few shots of...” He gestures in the general direction of Roman’s head. “…well, just your face. It won’t take long, promise.”

“I don’t think so,” Roman says coolly, using his professional voice.

He half-expects protest, the usual flattery and protestations from the press, like “ _Mr. Wild, come on, just one more_ ” and “ _Would you care to comment on…_ ” but the photographer only nods, and steps aside as Roman makes for the lifts. Roman catches a whiff of stale smoke as he passes by him, and wrinkles his nose.

The elevator doors slide open, expelling the smell of mulled wine, sweat and vomit. “Well, Happy New Year, then,” the photographer says behind him, his voice just slightly raised. It’s a smoker’s voice, too, deep and just a little bit hoarse.

“Happy New Year,” Roman says shortly, and slips inside.

***

  
Vanessa is sitting on a wide, flat rock near the shore, sharing a beer and a joint with Nick. She hands the latter to Deniz with a wry grimace as he flops down on the icy stone beside them. “That looked like a bust.” She jerks her head in the direction he just came from and Deniz's cheeks warm. He shoots a quick, alarmed side glance at Nick, then gives her a hard glare. Vanessa merely rolls her eyes, though, and Nick bursts out laughing.

“Dude, relax,” he says, plucking the untouched joint from Deniz’s hand and taking a deep drag. “Even if I hadn’t seen you race off after him, it’s kind of obvious.”

Deniz stares at him, feeling like the proverbial deer in the headlights, even though Nick’s wide blue gaze is guileless and friendly. The younger boy laughs again at his expression, then leans over and gives him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s called gaydar,” he explains amicably.

“Or alternatively, eyesight,” Vanessa supplies dryly.

Deniz stares.

Nick grins.

Vanessa laughs. “It’s okay, Deniz. You’re among friends.”

Deniz coughs, then takes a swig of beer to mask it. He catches sight of Oliver and Juli, sharing a mug of mulled wine near the pier, and gratefully latches onto the opportunity to divert attention from himself. “I thought Juli was out of town still.”

“She came back the day before yesterday.” Vanessa’s tone is carefully neutral, but Deniz knows her too well to be fooled. He clears his throat.

“And Oliver’s okay?”

“He’s over the worst.” She grabs a small flat rock, sends it skipping across the surface of the ice. “Well enough to fake he’s fine for a night.” There’s a grim, tired tone in her voice and Deniz reaches out without thinking, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“Rough week?” he asks.

Vanessa sits stiffly for a moment, then sighs. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” Her head drops against his shoulder and Deniz hugs her close, feeling absurdly grateful. His head is throbbing mildly from all the drink he’s mixed, and his ears are still ringing with Roman’s precise, merciless words, but at least there’s this: someone else’s pain to focus on for a moment, someone else’s misery to absorb.

Nick nudges the joint back into Vanessa’s hand, and the beer bottle into Deniz’s. “Y’all are pathetic,” he declares. “Take your time with the emo, but once you’re done… Deniz, you gotta tell me: is Roman as bendy as he looks? ‘Cause he looks bendy,” he adds dreamily.

“Oh my god,” Deniz mutters. Vanessa actually laughs.

***

  
No matter the things that happen on or near it, the ice draws Roman anyway. Its gleaming surface does not retain past defeats, botched jumps, falls. Figuratively and literally, it’s constantly being resurfaced, bumps levelled and grooves filled, leaving behind nothing but a blank, perfect canvas for him to graft himself onto, reclaiming it with the figures he makes of his body. The ice is more than practice ground, more than a means to an end. It’s home.

He steps onto it in the early morning, while everyone dreams in their hotel beds, spending the first hours of the new year in drunk exhaustion. Roman has only slept a couple of hours himself, but his head is strangely clear. Behind him, the hotel stands like a sleeping colossus, the only sign of civilisation all around the lakeshore, while ahead of him, the lake stretches in utter silence, frozen and white. Roman sits on the low pier to change into the rented skates, making a face at their bad fit, at the grooves and pressure points that shouldn’t be there. Still, they’re better than nothing. _Good skates don’t make a good skater_ , was one of the first things he heard when he started training professionally, and he learned the hard way that it’s true.

The pier is low enough to hop down without the help of the frozen ladder. Roman leaves his shoes there and slides out into the emptiness of the lake. The blades on the rented shoes are too blunt and the ice lacks the carefully maintained perfection of a professional rink, but the sheer space and the wide sky above make up for it. Roman fills his lungs with the pristine winter air, releases it in a long, steady rush, and starts to carve the virgin ice into the shape of loops and pirouettes and figure eights. He doesn’t try any jumps – it would be stupid, in these shoes and on natural ice – but his body loosens even into these simpler motions, becomes pliant and limber. His mind warms, too, the simple joy of skating washing away any lingering annoyance or agitation from last night: Deniz, the press, the gloomy sense of failure. For a while, the downsides of his professional life and the disaster zone that is his personal life no longer matter. He races the rush of his own breathing towards the far-off line of dark trees, spins rapidly beneath the white winter sky, and forgets, for a little while.

  
It’s only when he turns back and makes for shore that he notices he’s not alone. Someone’s sitting on the frozen pier, legs dangling over the edge. Roman frowns. For a second all he sees is a dark head, and he slows down, thinking _Deniz_ , but even sitting down, the figure doesn’t seem tall enough. Still, he’s not keen on encountering anyone just now. Briefly, he considers changing direction and heading for a different part of the shore, but realises that would be silly, not to mention obvious. Besides, his shoes are on the pier.

He skates for the pier at a moderate speed, but it’s only when he’s quite close that he recognises the intruder. It’s the photographer from last night, dressed in the same corduroy jacket over a thick Norwegian turtleneck. A thin trail of smoke wafts up into the pristine morning air from the end of the cigarette he’s holding.

“Morning,” he says when Roman has almost reached the low pier. He waves casually, as if he really needs to specify who he means, on the wide and empty ice.

“Morning,” Roman replies, pulling up in a curve. It comes out sounding curter than intended, but he doesn’t like feeling caught out. “It’s very early to be up and about. Especially on New Year’s Day.”

Instead of pointing out the obvious – that _he’s_ up and about, too – the photographer merely nods as he takes another draw on his cigarette. He gestures first at Roman’s legs and then out towards the lake. “That looked impressive.”

Roman shrugs, mildly annoyed at having been watched unawares. “The skates are rubbish. They’re rented.”

The photographer grins, tosses down his cigarette, then leaps the short distance off the pier to stub it out. “Well, it looked impressive to me – but then I wouldn’t know the difference.”

He turns to face Roman, extending a hand. “I’m Magnus, by the way.” He pulls a weird little face as he says it, as if he’s expecting ridicule, or is about to offer some himself.

Roman hesitates for a moment, but then slides half a step forward to shake hands. The other man’s hand is chilly and dry. With the added few inches his skates give Roman, they’re the same height. “Roman Wild.”

“I know.”

Of course he knows. It’s then that Roman sees the expensive camera still dangling from his neck. His shoulders stiffen, and he back-skates abruptly. “Got a good batch of pictures, then?” he asks sharply, gesturing out to where he was skating earlier. “I’m warning you, though. The Steinkamps very much frown on unauthorised footage on their skaters appearing in papers – and so do I, for that matter.”

The photographer – Magnus of the odd name – frowns and raises his hands, palms out. “Hey, hey, whoa. I didn’t take any pictures, okay? I just came out for a smoke.”

“With your camera.”

Magnus looks down at his chest, then pats the object in question affectionately. “Of course. She’s my baby. I take her pretty much everywhere except the loo.” He’s grinning when he looks up again. Against the backdrop of the pristine frozen whiteness, he looks a bit like a winter-logged pirate, stubbly and cheerful, and Roman has to revise his impression of last night slightly: He may be scruffy, but he’s not that hard on the eye. After a few moments, the wide grin fades and he cocks his head at Roman. “Look, I really didn’t take any photos.” When Roman doesn’t respond, he sighs and reaches for the strap of his camera. “I can show you if you want.”

He’s already pulled the camera over his head and taken a step towards him when Roman shakes his head, feeling suddenly foolish. “Never mind. I believe you.”

Magnus is still standing there with his camera extended, looking mildly inquisitive, and Roman waves him back. “Really, don’t bother. I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed,” he adds a moment later.

Magnus shrugs, takes a step back. “No need to apologise. I’m sure you get your fair share of trouble with the press, in your profession.”

“Occasionally,” Roman confirms, remembering Grünwald and that unfortunate photo of one Deniz Öztürk and him. It seems like years ago.

“Besides,” Magnus adds dryly, “You’re right to be cautious. I’m still hoping for that shot I asked about before.”

“I said no then.”

“Yeah, but that was last year. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask again.” The small grin is back, slightly crooked and unexpectedly charming. Roman finds himself wondering if he’s imagining things or if he’s being flirted with. His personal life must really be a sad state of affairs if he can no longer tell.

There’s the request for a photo, though, which is plenty of an ulterior motive. Roman’s flirted with people for less. Much less. He frowns, considering. “It wouldn’t be published or shown?”

“Not unless I suddenly get famous and am bombarded with offers for exhibitions. And then I’d ask your permission, of course,” Magnus adds quickly. He tilts his head, camera hopefully half-raised, and jerks his head a little by way of entreaty: _Come on, then, help a bloke out._

Roman sighs. “Fine. Just the one, though.” He pauses, oddly uncomfortable as the camera comes up, the dark lens cap disappearing as though an unblinking round eye has opened. “Do you want me to smile?”

The photographer isn’t even looking at him; he’s fiddling with his camera settings, dark brows drawn slightly together. “Only if you feel like it,” he says, sounding absent-minded. He waves a hand at Roman. “Just be yourself.”

Roman scowls, already half sorry to have agreed to this. _Be yourself_ , indeed. He stands stiff and motionless for long moments, filled with vague resentment. He’s well-versed in the art of flirting with cameras, presenting himself in his best light, but this catches him off-guard: the morning he thought was his alone, the request out of left field. The rented shoes are hard and unfamiliar on his feet and the pristine air has been contaminated with the smell of smoke and the sound of meaningless small talk. He feels tired and out of place. The damn photographer’s just standing there, camera in hand, and doesn’t move a finger. Roman impatiently rolls his shoulders, staring at the open lens. Nothing. He casts a glance back at the white, glassy surface of the lake, wishing he’d skated out farther; wishing he hadn’t come back. As he turns back again, there’s a soft click, and then Magnus lowers the camera, snaps the cap back on the lens.

Roman blinks. “That was it?”

“Yup.”

“You don’t want to… I don’t know, take a few so you can pick the best one?”

“Nope. I said just the one, didn’t I?”

Roman frowns. “How do you know it turned out?”

“I don’t.” The photographer is smiling, though it doesn’t reach his eyes; they’re oddly serious, oddly intent. They’re a clear grey, only slightly darker than the moody winter sky. Roman stares back without blinking, and in the end it’s the other man who looks away first.

“Well – thank you, Mr. Wild,” he says. “I do appreciate it. Happy New Year, again.”

The formal tone sounds like mockery. Roman swallows a sudden wave of anger. He skates by the photographer, close enough to almost jostle him, and grabs his shoes off the pier in passing. He skates for shore without a word, and without looking back.

 


	8. Checking Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deniz appears to pay attention. Strange and alarming development? Roman thinks so.

_Checking in ice hockey: The act of physically keeping an opposing player in check._

Checking in figure skating: Stopping the rotation of a jump or a spin.

For a woman of her tiny stature, Simone Steinkamp has a truly terrifying presence. She strides through the lobby like an angry war goddess, and when she slams the newspaper down in front of Roman on the countertop, it’s like a glove flung down in challenge.

“Let’s start with the good news, Mr. Wild. We’ve heard from the Skating Association about the Europeans.”

Roman sets down his espresso cup so hard that it wobbles dangerously in its saucer for a second before he can steady it. “Yes?”

Simone nods tightly. “I need hardly tell you that we were lucky to have any skaters qualify at all this time around. After Diana’s little excursion into professional stripping, Jenny’s doping ban just being lifted, and your performance at the Germans…” She purses her mouth and turns to order coffee from Constanze, ignoring Roman’s frozen stance half off, half on his barstool. “Anyway. It appears that stripping is more frowned upon than having doped in the past, so this year, Jenny is going to represent the Steinkamp team on the female side. Also…” – she accepts her coffee cup with a nod and takes a sip that seems entirely too long to Roman – “a couple of candidates from other skating teams have unexpectedly dropped out, so due to that and on the strength of your former performances, _and_ after my husband and I pulled a couple of strings… congratulations, Mr. Wild. You’re in.”

Roman releases the breath he didn’t realise he’s been holding. After her long string of qualifications, the relief he feels tastes vaguely sour taste, but it’s a relief nonetheless. “Thank you, Mrs. Steinkamp.”

Simone purses her lips. “Oh, don’t thank me yet. I haven’t got to the less pleasant part of my news yet.”

She flips open the paper, impatiently turning pages until she gets to the sports section. “I didn’t realise I was being unclear when I stated that the New Year’s celebration was supposed to have been a chance for _positive_ promotion for our team.” She thrusts the paper across the counter towards him, one red-painted nail stabbing down on an article. “What, may I ask, is this?”

Roman stares at the open page. The article accompanies a picture of himself in the lobby of the lakeside hotel, an ugly snarl on his face as he glares at the photographer trying to position him. It’s most definitely not one the dozens of shots taken when he was actually posing and prepared for it. The headline is “Failing Skater Lashes Out At Press”.

“What…?” Roman murmurs, grabbing up the paper.

“That’s what I’m asking you,” Simone comments coolly, but Roman’s barely listening. He skims over the article rapidly, and with every word he reads, his blood starts boiling more. “Oh, those bitches,” he murmurs, gritting his teeth.

  


> _Despite his disastrous performance at his last national-level competition, Roman Wild shows himself to be surprisingly arrogant, brusquely dismissing suggestions that he might be nearing the end of his career, refusing to let himself be photographed, and insulting members of the press. “I’m every bit as good as Nurejev,” states Wild with supreme confidence, and refuses to discuss his public image and how it may have been influenced by his openly homosexual lifestyle. Whether or not there is any substance to his assertions of competence remains to be seen at the upcoming European Championships, provided he qualifies at all. What also remains to be seen is whether the capricious skater, who has a history of unpredictable performances, will actually be a permanent asset to the ailing Steinkamp team, whose other two skaters, long-time rivals Diana Sommer and Jennifer Steinkamp…_

  


Roman slaps the paper down with as much force as Simone did, if not more. “I never said that! Not like that! The interviewer twisted my words, and that bloody photographer-”

She makes an impatient noise. “That’s irrelevant now. It’s in the paper, and it does our image no favours. Need I tell you that this team could really do with some positive press?” Roman opens his mouth, but Simone talks right over him, pushing her barely touched coffee across the counter. “We can only hope that the Skating Association won’t use this as incentive to change their minds after all. Jenny is coming back from her tour this week, I’ve called Mr. Berger in to work on choreographies, and Mr. Hartwig is aware that extra training sessions will be required. It’s eight weeks until the Europeans, Roman. I need you all to make good use of them. Is that understood?”

Clenching his teeth, Roman nods. It would be easier to dismiss the article and the cringe-worthy picture – that bastard photographer, so much for the smiling and the flirting – if he didn’t feel exactly like his growling counterpart looks.

“I’ll give it my all.”

“Good,” Simone Steinkamp states, smoothing down her skirt as she gets up. “We support our athletes through a lot, but I hope you’re aware that everyone gets a limited number of chances. I advise you to make the most of this one.”

Mike, as ever, is of very little help.

“Piano music?” he says, making a face and squinting down at the CD Roman has handed him. “Is that the best you could find?”

“It’s what I wrote my short program for, so yes,” Roman retorts shortly.

“Hm,” says Mike, unconvinced. “Well, whatever floats your boat – but you know, Roman, most of the competition will be doing classical pieces. If you want to stand out, you might want to check out some contemporary stuff, at least for your freestyle. Something with a bit of a kick to it.”

“Something like Diana’s music?” Roman suggests dryly as he puts on his knitted cap. “Mike, that’s Diana’s style, not mine. I’d look ridiculous skating to something like Silbermond or Königswerq. I need something I feel is me. Besides… listen to it at least once before you diss it, okay?”

Mike shrugs and reaches for the portable CD player. “Sure thing,” he says, amiably enough, popping in the CD. “Go on, warm up, do your short program – there shouldn’t be too much trouble with that. Then we’ll work on your insane combination for the freestyle.”

It’s only when he steps past Mike and onto the ice that Roman realises the rink isn’t empty. Two figures in hockey gear, one short, one tall, are locked in a grappling match on the far side, hockey sticks tangled on the ice. As he watches, the shorter one breaks away, sliding gracelessly backwards across the ice. The tall one – the one Roman would recognise anywhere, whether or not his features are hidden – raises his hockey stick in a gesture of triumph and yells, “Okay, Nick, that was better, but c’mon, you so could have got that past me! Let’s go again!”

Roman takes a deep breath. “I’m working on my freestyle today, Mike. I need the whole rink.”

“Mhm.” Mike, frowning, slaps a hand on top of the CD player, mutters something under his breath. Then he turns abruptly, yelling down the length of the ice. “Alright, Deniz, Nick, time’s up! I need you off the ice!”

The urge to sail off into the safety of the rink, to remove himself from the prospect of interaction, is almost irresistible. Recognising his own reluctance, Roman resists anyway, pointedly taking his time about removing his skate guards. He’ll be damned if he takes to the ice like a fugitive just because the presence of one lanky hockey player makes him uncomfortable.

One lanky hockey player who, over the past four weeks, saved him from freezing to death, came gasping all over him that same night, tried to kiss him on New Year’s Eve, and has since developed this irritating habit of being wherever Roman is, all the time.

Just like any of that actually matters.

The two of them come skating towards the boards, and Roman, intent on not looking at Deniz, spares a moment to idly notice that the younger kid’s style isn’t bad. Light for a hockey player, sure on his skates, and with good balance. He whips off his helmet as he draws close, shaking out his damp red curls.

“Hi!” he says brightly as he pulls up. “Sorry, we kinda forgot the time. Deniz was trying to teach me some checking techniques.”

“ _Trying_ being the operative word,” Deniz says dryly as he comes to a halt behind Nick, towering over him by a head and a half. “You’re hopeless.”

Nick shrugs and grins, unchastised. Over the top of his head, Deniz’s gaze meets Roman’s, flickers past him, then comes sliding back almost immediately. “Hi, Roman.”

Carefully neutral tone, or as neutral as Deniz can manage. Roman finds himself idly wishing that his ex didn’t use his name every chance he gets. “Hello.” He pulls his zipper up to his chin, rubs his hands together briefly. “Mike, don’t worry about the music just yet,” he says over his shoulder. “I need to work on that camel spin after warm-up before I can do anything with the full program. Can you keep an eye on my timing for that? If you can spare one?” he adds acerbically as Mike scribbles notes down in his folder. Without looking up, Mike makes a vaguely shooing motion at him with one hand.

“Wanker,” Roman murmurs under his breath. He’s not sure if he’s imagined the tiny smile twitching briefly in the corner of Deniz’s mouth.

“Are you doing your thing? For the championships?” Nick asks, nimbly hopping up the step off the rink. Roman’s barely got a nod in before Nick adds, “Oh, awesome! Do you mind if we watch?”

“Er…” There’s something endearing about the boy’s guileless, freckled grin, something hard to refute, even with Deniz standing there next to him, looking as comically trapped as Roman feels. Against his own volition, Roman finds himself smiling back. “Sure. If you’ve got nothing better to do.”

He makes sure to say it to the boy, and the boy only; but minutes later, once he’s safely out in the rink and in the familiar loosening routine of his warm-up exercises, he casts a casual glance back towards the boards, and there are two heads there behind the shielding glass: one red, one dark. Roman turns his eyes away, takes a deep breath, and resolves to forget they’re there.

***

It’s all Nick’s fault, obviously. If it wasn’t for his inability to grasp the very basic motion of a sweep check, they wouldn’t have gone into overtime. They would have been off the ice long before Roman showed up, and there would have been no question of them watching.

Not that Deniz has to watch, of course. Nick wanted to; Nick who’s friendly and clueless as a ginger kitten and embarrassingly enthusiastic when it comes to ogling Roman. He didn’t ask Deniz, who has no time anyway. Camilla’s at the bar by herself and he was just going to have a bite to eat before going to help her. There’s no reason to hang out here any longer than he has to. No reason to stay.

Yet here he is, hands on the boards and eyes drawn inexorably to the figure on the ice, shrinking towards the ground as he drops into a sit spin. Next to him, Nick is babbling on about foot switches and spinning angles and other terms that Deniz knows he should recognise, but it’s hard to pay attention to anything but the blur of black and red out on the ice.

When the music comes on, Deniz hardly notices. It starts so softly that by the time he registers it, it feels like Roman has spun it into being with this swift whip around his own axis, that slow sweep impossibly close to the ground, that easy lift into a Lutz. Deniz doesn’t know the tune and doesn’t know much more about classical music than to recognise a piano when he hears it, but even so he’s tugged along by the slow build of urgency, the high, pleading notes accompanying the lift and dip of Roman’s progression around the rink, the triumphant rise on a double Axel and the gentle dip of a layback spin.

“He’s pretty damn amazing, huh?”

Nick’s voice, soft as it is, cuts near-unpleasantly through Deniz’s reverie. He nods reluctantly. “I guess.”

“You guess?” Nick laughs at him. “Okaaaay.”

Deniz tears his eyes away from Roman for long enough to glare. “What?”

Nick, still grinning, lifts his hands in a gesture of exaggerated innocence. “Oh, nothing. Vanessa told me a bit about the history. Sounds like a tangled web of drama.”

Deniz makes a non-committal noise. He likes Nick – it’s hard not to – but the last thing he needs right now is yet another confidant to his myriad fuck-ups.

Nick, to his credit, doesn’t prod. They watch in relative silence as Roman goes through his sequence. Being the short program, it doesn’t take that long, only occasionally interrupted by a misstep or an off-course progression that Mike corrects in his usual blunt manner. “Let’s repeat that,” he’ll call out, or “Where the hell are you going? You’re too close to the boards,” or, the height of praises, “Alright, that was decent. Let’s have it again with the music, and try not to fall on your arse on the layback! It looked close that last time.”

Again, the piano tune haunts the high ceilings, understated at first but gradually growing in volume and urgency. In time with the fluid, sweeping score, Roman slides low to the ground, spinning around his own axis at an impossibly steep angle, his weight balanced on nothing more than the harsh inside edge of his skates and three finger tips on the ice. He sails out in a wide circle, muscles bunching as the piano crescendos, and takes off for the double Lutz. They can hear the sharp crack of impact as the ice takes his landing. With one leg perfectly extended, Roman spins round once, twice, three times, and comes to a stop on bended knee, head lowered, his left arm and leg forming a straight line towards the ice.

“Woohoooo!” Nick is actually bouncing up and down beside Deniz, clapping wildly. “That was fucking awesome!” Out on the ice, Roman gives him a wave and a bow. There’s a pleased little smile on his flushed face, and when Deniz feels the air cold against his exposed teeth, he realises that he’s grinning back.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Mike calls out, arms crossed. “I still don’t like your angle on the third turn – the judges won't be impressed if you crash into their table. Okay, take a break and then we’ll tackle the freestyle. You’ll need lots of work on that one.”

Even at a distance, Deniz sees the smile vanish from Roman’s face, the abruptness of his motion as he turns towards the far side of the rink. He frowns. “Come on, Mike. That was really good!”

Mike gives him a sour glance. “It better be, if he wants to stand any chance at this competition…. after placing bloody sixteenth at the Germans!”

“I’m surprised you even know how he placed,” Deniz shoots back angrily. “Since you were so busy digging up Julian’s corpse or something.”

Mike’s already haggard face goes stony. “Shut the hell up about Julian or I will kick you off this rink.”

Deniz has already opened his mouth for a heated retort that would no doubt end with Mike’s threat coming true when Nick’s hand on his arm stops him. “Dude, c’mon, let’s go. Some of the guys are hanging out at No.7, let’s go have a beer or something.”

Deniz hesitates, eyes flickering involuntarily back towards Roman, who’s loosening his shoulders with a few practised rolls. “You go on ahead,” he hears himself say, to his own surprise. “I see enough of that bar as it is. I’ll be along in a bit.”

Nick gives him an uncomfortably shrewd look, but doesn’t comment. “Sure. See you later, then.” He raises his voice to carry across the ice. “That was great, Roman! Cheers for letting me watch!”

Roman raises his arm to wave at him again, just as Mike claps his hands sharply. “Alright, let’s have the freestyle! Without music first!”

Alone above the boards, Deniz presses his hands against the glass and leans forward to watch.

***

Falling never gets any easier.

You’d think that after sixteen years of doing this, there’d be some getting used to it; some sort of rapport with the ice, a kind of mercy pact. Falling is part of the deal. It happens, it hurts, you get up and start over. But somehow, the impact never feels less like an utter failure, never less like a betrayal of muscles and tendons he’s honed for years to get each motion right. He’s always been perfectionist to the point of obsession. It’s a useful trait in some ways, giving him the persistence necessary to keep working at a routine over and over again despite the frustrations. But sometimes he could do without this depth of aggravation at himself, the constant self-recrimination of _Not good enough, damn you._

It happens with the blasted Rittberger again, on the third spin. And this time he doesn’t even have the excuse of some silly hockey kid getting in the way. He can tell the spin is off a split-second before he comes down, his left foot not unhooked for the landing yet, and hits the ice with his hip and shoulder, gritting his teeth at the jolting pain even as he rolls sideways and regains his feet.

“Roman! Concentrate!” Mike’s voice rings out across the rink, the note of impatience barely hidden. A brief glance towards the boards shows him sitting on the step off the rink, a clipboard balanced on his knees. Roman is surprised to see he’s not alone; several feet to the side, Deniz is still there, hands against the glass like a child peeking into a candy store. Roman grits his teeth, brushing ice dust off his training slacks. It absolutely doesn’t matter if Deniz witnesses him falling, he tells himself. It’ll be worse if hundreds of people see the same at the Europeans.

He pushes off, takes a deep breath, and repeats the combination, trying to feel his way into the sense of emotional urgency it requires. He starts out well enough, mastering the double toe loop, dipping down on the ice just long enough to gain enough force for the triple Rittberger. He manages the third rotation this time, but just barely; it’s off enough that he can already feel he’s not going to make it through the full combination as he does the half-spin transition into the double Salchow. Sure enough, he spins off axis on the first turn. He gives into the fall a split second early to lessen the impact, but it still knocks the breath from his lungs, and he lies on his side for a few seconds, eyes closed and fists clenching. “Dammit,” he murmurs.

There’s an echoing curse from the side of the rink. “How is it possible,” yells Mike exasperatedly, “that someone who can land a quadruple toe loop three times out of five has trouble with a fucking Salchow? _Juli_ can do a fucking Salchow, for fuck’s sake!”

“I’m trying, okay?” Roman yells back, pushing himself up on his elbow. “It might help if you told me what the hell I’m doing wrong!”

“You’re mucking up a beginner’s jump, is what you’re doing wrong! Keep your bloody tension and keep the free leg straight as you spin!”

Roman regains his feet, wincing as he puts his hand on his hip. He’s going to have a bruise the size of Poland, he can tell. “Mike, I know how to do a Salchow! I was off on the Rittberger and it carried over! Can you watch the rotation?”

Mike makes an impatient motion. “The Rittberger was fine. Just focus, will you?”

“Great,” Roman mutters, pulls his dislodged cap down over his ears, and starts over.

***

Deniz winces when Roman comes crashing down. It’s a jolt in his own body, like phantom pain from a motion he’d never be able to do. He’s known his share of ice-related injuries, of course: Hockey is nothing if not brutal. He couldn’t put a number to the times he’s fallen, crashed into someone else, banged into the goal, known the excruciating pain of impact. The ice gives no one quarter. It hits you hard, again and again. Deniz has seen people giving up on hockey because of that, grown too fearful of the promise of pain.

Still, somehow that’s different from seeing Roman fall. It’s like a sly betrayal, seeing one of Roman’s effortless spins spiralling sideways and ending in a crash. There’s no music this time to translate the nature of beauty to him, no bridge between him and this silent dance and struggle. Deniz is made of force and exuberance, used to sweeping others along in the wake of his charm; there is no way for him to understand the subtlety of this complicated pattern Roman weaves with his body, or the way he draws onlookers in with this grace that’s every bit as lethal as it is lovely. So often, Deniz has heard people dismiss Roman for all the wrong reasons, thinking him sweet, or moderately talented, or comically dramatic; making of him some harmless creature too used to falling to make a fuss about it; too accustomed to being the sidekick to demand any serious attention.

Watching him skate now, he knows they were wrong, knows with a certainty that sinks into his very bones that he was wrong too, on a level too scary, too deep for comprehension. He watches, feeling his heart lift with every jump and crash with every fall, and on every spin he forgets a little more that he and Roman are hopeless, an impossible combination, a lost cause; forgets the chasms of hurt and betrayal that he’s dug with his own hands, and forgets that he’s not supposed to be in love.

***

“Prosecco?” Constanze lifts her brows at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your championship’s diet?”

Roman gives her a smile that feels like it’s eating his face from the inside. Judging from Constanze’s widening eyes, it doesn’t look much more convincing to her. “Constanze, my darling, my treasure, curly-haired goddess of my secret Greek dreams,” he grits out, “Give. Me. The. Prosecco.”

Constanze pours without comment and shoves the glass towards him so hastily that it nearly topples over. Roman cups his hands around it quickly to steady it, then lifts it to his lips with a sarcastic half-toast. She makes a sympathetic face, though she stays out of arm’s reach. “Training go badly?”

Roman shrugs. “Training go semi-badly, my trainer is a useless ass, and my ex was there watching. Leave the bottle, will you?”

She sets it down before him, pushing aside a newspaper to make room. It reminds Roman of the other things that have already gone phenomenally wrong this week. “Oh yeah, and the press hate me,” he adds glumly. “Not that that’s exactly news.”

“Oh!” Constanze, who was just bending over to gets something from a bottom cabinet, straightens abruptly. “Speaking of press – I totally forgot, but there’s someone to see you over in the lobby. I told him you were training, and he said he’d wait.”

“From the press?” Roman makes a face. “Because I’m probably not exactly safe around any of them right now.”

Constanze bobs her head, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Didn’t say, but I got a press vibe. Gunnarsson, he said his name was.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells.”

Constanze nods past his shoulder. “He’s over there. Bloke in the leather jacket. Grey scarf. Cute but scruffy?”

Roman turns reluctantly on his bar stool, scans the wicker chairs in the lobby. At first glance, the man in the worn leather jacket is just any old stranger with a laptop balanced on his knees. Then he tilts his head a bit, and something about the messy fringe, the sharp cheekbone, clicks into place, just a second before he spots the camera bag on the table. Roman bites out an incredulous curse. “That’s the bastard whose bloody picture they put in the paper! What the fuck is he doing here?”

“Oh!” exclaims Constanze, reaching for the paper. “I did think he looked familiar – that’s the guy you attacked?”

“I did not attack him!” Roman growls, tugging the paper out of her hands. “Yet,” he adds darkly, sliding off his bar stool.

“Roman!” Constanze says, alarmed, but he pays her no heed; he’s already striding across the lobby, paper in hand.

The photographer looks up when Roman is halfway there, as if he sensed him coming. A smile starts to spread across his features, and he closes the laptop he’s been typing on, prepares to get up.

Roman doesn’t give him the chance. He slaps the paper down on the table so hard he feels the sharp passage of air in its wake. “Magnus, wasn’t it? Thanks for the good press. Good to know those hundreds of pictures you took were put to good use.”

The smile on the young man’s face – less stubbly than last time, but still a far cry from clean-shaven – falters and tilts sideways into a frown. He raises his hands, palms out, and stares up at Roman with an expression of mild alarm. “Okay, wait – hang on just a second. I can explain…”

“Oh yeah?” Roman snarls and bends forward, yanking the paper open to the sports pages so forcefully he feels it tear a bit in the middle. He finds the photo of him, face distorted in anger as he shoves the photographer away. _“Refusing to be photographed? Insulting members of the press?”_

“That’s not-”

“-not what it looks like? You and that interviewer cow didn’t gang up on me behind my back? Didn’t twist everything I said to make me look like a complete delusional failure just in time for the European Championships? Didn’t put that horrid picture in there, when you must’ve had a dozen decent ones?”

“I didn’t even take that picture!” Magnus has finally stood up, forcing Roman to take a step back to give him room. He’s taller than he remembered, but then Roman was wearing skates last time. He gestures at the paper with a mild scowl. “In case it’s escaped you, that’s me in the picture, so I could hardly have taken it. It was one of the ones my assistant was futzing around with.”

“It doesn’t make a flying fuck’s difference who took the picture!” Roman shoots back. “The fact is it’s there, everyone’s going to dig it out for every single bit of championships coverage, and it’s a damn shitty thing to do! And you come wandering in here…”

“Okay, whoa, stop! This is not… Just hear me out, would you?”

“Why should I?” Roman brings his hand down on his thigh, smacking it hard in frustration. “Do you have any idea how important the weeks before an international competition are for a skater… for any professional athlete? Do you have any idea about the amount of damage your stupid fucking picture is going to cause? I’m telling you-”

“I do!” Magnus’s voice, hoarse with smoke, cuts him off harshly, but his stance is non-threatening, open hands still held up. “I do, and it’s part of why I’m here – just give me a moment to explain, yeah?”

Roman stares at him, forces himself to take a deep breath. “What’s to explain?” he asks angrily, though a bit more quietly. “It’s already there. The damage is done. The Steinkamps will probably call the paper and demand a counter-statement, yes, and they’ll probably even get it, but who gives a damn? Nobody reads counter-statements anyway. This is what people will remember” – he stabs a finger down at the picture again – “the fact that Roman Wild is not only a crap skater and a conceited twat, but also potentially violent. I might as well change my name to Tonya Harding, all because of that bloody woman’s twisted interview and your bloody picture!”

With an impatient gesture, Magnus pushes his long fringe out of his eyes. “For the last time, it’s not _my_ picture,” he insists, dark brows furrowed. He clears his throat and picks up the paper, frowning at the tiny caption underneath the photo. “Even though they put my initials on it, the bastards.”

Roman spares a glance at the tiny print, claiming the photograph is by “M. G.” Magnus makes a displeased noise and tosses the paper back onto the table.

“Look, it _was_ a rotten thing to do, completely, and believe me or not, I’ve even told them so, not that they’d ever listen to the photographer.” He clears his throat again, looking uncomfortable. “I’m not even one of their paid staff. I occasionally freelance for them, and after this, it may have been the last time, frankly.”

Roman snorts incredulously, and the other man’s frown deepens. “Come on, I’m telling you the truth. I had a great set of pictures – of you, of everyone else. I picked the best sets, I sent them to the paper, they paid me, that was that. I only saw the article this morning – I called them to give them a piece of my mind, and they said it was their prerogative which photos they print. Unfortunately they’re right.”

He pauses, looking Roman straight in the eye and dipping his head a little to the side, a strangely fluid motion, like some odd, ruffled bird. “Believe me, the last thing I wanted was to cause you any trouble.”

The mood he’s in, Roman would love nothing better than to scoff and dismiss both the man and the explanation. But there’s something intently sincere about his direct look and smoky tone, something about the slightly awkward way he was still holding up his hands that leads Roman to grudgingly defuse his anger somewhat.

“And you came here just to tell me that?” he demands, still disgruntled.

Magnus shakes his head and reaches for a folder on the chair beside him. “Mostly, I came to give you this – not that it makes up for what the paper did at all, I just thought you might… well, I figured it couldn’t hurt to, er… here.”

Roman lifts a brow at the pronounced lack of eloquence in that statement, but when Magnus pulls a brown envelope from the folder and hands it to him, he reflexively accepts it. He turns it over gingerly. “What’s this?”

Magnus jams his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, a defensive gesture that makes him look quite young, although he must be Roman’s age at least. “Take a look.”

The envelope isn’t sealed. Roman opens it, pulls out one stiff page of photo paper. Most of which is taken up by his face.

There’s hardly a wash of colour in the picture beyond a light flush across his own cheekbone. The early morning light is as crisp and pale as he remembers, a dark line of trees on the far shore the only absence of light. The expanse of the lake looks white and utterly smooth, like a frost-glazed mirror. In the foreground, his own profile, facing away from the camera, lashes half-lowered as he glances out towards the vastness of the frozen lake. The corner of his mouth droops slightly, and every bone in his face is sharp and smooth as carved ivory, matching the frosty stillness of his backdrop. He looks bitter and wistful at once, cautious yet longing.

Roman stares at it for several long seconds, caught off guard by the brittle tranquillity of his expression, the way the picture brings out all of his sharp edges without making him look hard. It makes him feel uncomfortably exposed, if impressed. He turns the picture in his hands a few seconds longer, gathering himself. When he finally looks up, he meets Magnus’s expectant gaze with as much composure as he can muster. “It’s beautiful.” Not the right word, but it’s the best he can come up with.

Magnus lifts one shoulder. “Well, yes,” he nods, as if there were no question about it. “I was wondering about whether to… I mean, I didn’t want to bother you, after I already bothered you last time. You might think I was a stalker or something. But I thought maybe you might like a copy.”

Roman nods, sliding the photo back into its envelope after one last furtive glance at his own profile. “I do. Thank you.”

Magnus tilts his head questioningly, causing a longish strand of dark hair to fall in his eyes again and be impatiently blown back. “So – you’re not going to yell at me any more?”

Roman narrows his eyes, shoots a brief glare at the paper on the table, then sighs and allows his tense shoulders to relax a bit. “No, I guess not. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I’m sorry.”

Magnus waves his apology away and clears his throat. “Then… would I be taking my life into my hands if I asked if you wanted to get dinner sometime?”

Roman stares at him with what he later realises must have been a cringeworthily stupid expression. “Dinner?”

There’s a hint of a smile around the other man’s lips; not mockery, but definitely amusement. “Yes, uhm… consuming food in each other’s company in a neutral restaurant setting. Often used as an excuse to get to know each other better.” His deadpan is near flawless, but there’s a hint of uncertainty there too, a slight flicker in his light grey eyes.

For a long moment, turning the brown envelope over and over in his hands, Roman finds himself at a loss.

“If you don’t want to, that’s fine,” Magnus adds hastily, then pulls a face. “I mean, I’d be crushed and cursing myself for not being smoother and agonise about how everything could have been different if I’d made myself look more cool and less like an utter geek, but-”

It’s then that Roman spots a familiar figure strolling past the bar to the main exit of the Centre. Even as he watches, Deniz’s head turns, and Roman can see him take the two of them in, dark eyes flickering quickly back and forth between Magnus and him. A line appears between Deniz’s brows, and his steps slow slightly. For a split second, Roman remembers the acute embarrassment he felt earlier, when he knew Deniz was standing at the boards and witnessed every fall. He feels his jaw tense and yanks his eyes away from Deniz’s curious, suspicious face, back to the young man before him.

“On one condition,” he hears himself say.

Magnus gives him a questioning but hopeful look. “Yes?”

Roman can feel his lips curving slightly. “Don’t bring your camera,” he says firmly. Adding to his amusement is that for a second or two, Magnus actually looks torn. Then his face breaks into a broad smile – the same piratey grin as that day on the lake, unselfconscious and pleased. Charmed against his will, Roman smiles back.

 

***

The fourth time Roman falls, Deniz sees why.

It’s later in the week, and it’s not like they haven’t had enough hockey practice, exactly – on the contrary; with the Steinkamps talking about professional hockey, they’ve been working harder than ever. So it’s natural enough that he’d be spending a lot of time on the ice, natural enough that he’d stay after hours, patiently trying to teach Alex some basic strategies, and Nick some basic not-getting-mashed-into-a-pulp-by-any-stray-hockey-stick skills. There’s nothing much else to do. Camilla and the other temp are running No.7 well enough without him, and his father is still not back from France, his vague statement of “a few days or a week” growing more insubstantial by every day that he’s not here. It’s natural enough that he’d spend all his spare time on the ice.

Natural enough that he’d linger past his training hours, lurking in the stands and watching Roman practise.

It’s Nick’s fault, he tries to tell himself at first. Nick and his stupid fanboy enthusiasm, but whatever he tries to tell himself, the result is this: he’s here, all without Nick, in the shadows surrounding the rink, watching Roman skate.

Watching Roman coil his muscles, dip and bend in an incredibly fluid motion, spinning powerfully, once, twice…

…and crashing down, again.

Mike smacks his clipboard against his thigh. “How many flipping times, Roman? _Concentrate_!”

“I am concentrating!” Roman yells back, pushing a knee underneath him to get back on his feet.

“Again!” Mike grits out. Roman stands near the middle of the rink, shoulders heaving with exhaustion or indignation or both. Even at a distance, Deniz can tell he’s tense to the point of snapping. For a moment it looks like he might just charge at Mike, or at the very least storm off the rink. “ _Again_!” Mike shouts. Roman flips him the finger, but he does turn towards the starting point of the combination.

Deniz frowns. “Mike.”

“Hm?” Mike’s back is turned to the rink as he holds his clipboard up against the boards, scribbling busily. Deniz hesitates, his glance slipping back and forth between Mike and Roman, feeling foolish but unable to keep his mouth shut. He remembers that motion: the aborted spin, the fraction of a second in which everything goes wrong. Remembers yelling _“What the hell is he doing?”_ at a TV screen just as Roman tilted off course.

“That third rotation on the triple Rittberger. He’s holding the check on his shoulder too long. I think it’s blocking the momentum.”

Mike lifts his eyes from his training schedules for long enough to stare at Deniz with a mixture of contempt and bemusement. “What?”

Swallowing his rising indignation, Deniz points. “Look.”

Mike follows the direction of Deniz’s outstretched hand. Together, they watch as Roman spins easily through the double toe loop and segues without interruption into the triple Rittberger. One spin, one and a half, two… Deniz steps down into the rink almost without noticing, gaze fixed on Roman’s sequence. Next to him, Mike makes a “huh” sort of noise, just as Roman barely saves the third rotation and once again comes fails to make the transition to the Salchow, hitting the ice sideways with a resounding crash.

 _“Fuck!”_ Roman punches the surface of the ice fruitlessly, once again rolling around to come to his knees. Deniz exchanges a glance with Mike, knows a moment of triumph when he sees the flicker of uncertainty there.

Mike clears his throat. “Roman!”

“Yeah, yeah… _concentrate_!” Roman yells back, slapping his thigh in frustration.

Mike makes a shushing motion. “Okay, try a bit less pressure on the outside edge on take-off – and relax on the third spin, okay? You need to release the shoulder check a bit earlier!”

Roman frowns at them both but does not comment as he skates back to the starting point. Deniz only realises that he’s taken a step forward when Mike’s hand on his arm restrains him. Roman dips low, lifts into the double toe loop – rolls over into the Rittberger – once – twice – thrice – there’s the shoulder, dipping down just a fraction of a second earlier, and he lands perfectly, his free leg propelling him into a half spin before he lifts again into the final part of the combination, the simple spin of the double Salchow. Whipping round, once, twice, and ending sweet and easy on a spin-scratch before he comes to a halt.

 _“Yes!”_ Deniz doesn’t realise he’s yelled it out loud until Mike lifts his brows at him sardonically; until Roman’s head jerks up and he stares at him across the half rink, brows drawn together underneath his cap.

Deniz struggles against a sudden, absurd panic as Roman skates up. The urge to turn and run is strong, an almost animal instinct that it takes all his strength to resist. It helps that Roman isn’t looking at him; instead, he’s honing in on Mike like some irate insect, stopping within punching distance.

“Okay, finally something useful – may I ask why the hell it took about seventy-three falls for you to notice that?”

Mike shrugs, clearly not intimidated, and waves his clipboard towards Deniz. “Don’t thank me, thank your ex. Apparently he thinks he’s a figure skating trainer now.”

“What?” Deniz just barely manages to draw up his shoulders and cross his arms before Roman stares at him, his expression a fair cry from gratitude. Deniz avoids his gaze and rounds on Mike instead, absurdly grateful for the half-smirk that sparks his indignation. “Yeah, well, perhaps I wouldn’t have to, if you cared enough to do your fucking job,” he growls. “You’re either texting or doing training schedules instead of watching him. You weren’t at the last World Championships because you were too busy sulking over my dad and Nadja, and you sure as shit didn’t give a fuck about how he was doing at the Germans. You’re the worst trainer I’ve ever seen.”

Mike’s eyes have narrowed to slits. “Newsflash, Öztürk,” he growls, “a quickie before a competition doesn’t qualify as a suitable training regimen. So shut the hell up.”

Deniz feels his cheeks warm with rage and guilt, but before he can say anything else, Roman steps between him and Mike. He’s facing Mike, so all Deniz can see is the tense line of his shoulders, but the cold tone of contempt in his voice is hard to mistake. Deniz has heard it directed at him so many times that it’s difficult to convince himself he’s not the focus of it this time.

“Actually, Mike,” Roman says coolly, “you’re the one who should be shutting up. I did this routine in front of you at least a dozen times and all you ever told me was to _concentrate_ or _stop wasting your time_. If it takes a _hockey player_ to tell me what I’m doing wrong, maybe that should give you something to think about.”

The fierce flash of pride at Roman’s words takes Deniz by surprise. He puts a hand on Roman’s shoulder and makes no effort to disguise his sneer at Mike over the top of Roman’s head. Then he steps around to face Roman, deliberately turning his back on Mike. “Well done,” he says, ignoring the suddenly doubling beat of his heart at the sight of Roman’s guarded face. “That was…” he swallows, searches for a word, doesn’t find an accurate one. “Well done,” he repeats lamely, and feels heat shooting to his face at the sound of Mike’s contemptuous snort. He turns on his heel, hand dropping off Roman’s shoulder, and nearly runs through the stands, to the relative safety of the locker room, while his heart beats a mocking tempo with his rushing feet, drumming, _Fool, fool, fool_.

***

Mike’s foul mood persists through the rest of his training, but Roman finds he doesn’t care, not even when he discovers that his quadruple loop is just too close to the triple combination to be workable; not even when he goes off balance on a simple sit spin and falls. He tries to brush off what happened earlier as a fluke, a lucky guess, something that anyone with half an eye could spot. But the thing is, it just wasn’t. It’s not just that _he_ couldn’t tell what was off about his jump; he often can’t, since his perspective is just too close. It’s not even that Mike didn’t see, or care to pay attention. If he got a euro for every time Mike’s ignored him or left it up to him to figure out a technique, he could probably retire in style. But Deniz?

It doesn’t add up. Deniz Öztürk doesn’t pay attention, unless he stands to gain from it, and he stands to gain nothing from this.

Does he?

The cynical part of Roman would love nothing more than to believe that Deniz only watched him practise to laugh at his falls in secret, maybe as some sort of revenge against the brush-off Roman gave him on New Year’s Eve. That he only pointed out his problem with the shoulder check because it was an opportunity to show up Mike and embarrass Roman at the same time.

But frankly, if it was a scheme to mock him, there are probably easier ways. And there was something too genuine about his triumphant shout when Roman cleared his combination; something too awkward and real about the compliment at the boards. There’s also the fact that for all his betrayals, Deniz has never been less than supportive about his skating. More so than Roman even knew, if Annette is to be believed about the Germans. Roman rolls it over and over in his mind as he rolls through the motions of his routine, but his focus is off centre, and it doesn’t take long for Mike to send him off the ice. Roman steps past him without a word.

It was probably too much to hope for to get the locker room to himself. Deniz’s clothes lie strewn across the bench, and one of the showers is on hot, steam wafting up to the ceiling. Standing at the door, Roman hesitates as he entertains a brief notion of going home straight away and showering there. Things may have normalised somewhat between Deniz and him, but somehow they’ve still managed not to be here together since that damnable day they clashed in anger and twisted lust. Roman suspects that Deniz has been deliberately staying out of the locker room whenever he was in it. It’s that thought that tips the balance of his decision now, makes him close the door behind him and deliberately start stripping down. This is his locker room as well, and it’s about time he and Deniz returned to some semblance of normalcy inside it.

He steps into the second shower, wincing as warm water hits recently bruised skin. Blinking against the drops, he twists his head to inspect his shoulder and hip, hissing a curse at the dark red bruises forming there, one extending from his hip bone down his thigh, the other, larger one covering almost the width of his shoulder blade. There are twinges of discomfort in other parts of his body too, the muscles sore and tired from the rigorous training session, but those are good aches, the physical knowledge of an afternoon’s hard but successful work.

Successful thanks to the man in the shower cubicle next to his, and isn’t that a conundrum. Roman frowns, turns the water pressure on higher, and tries to sluice the nagging questions down the drain.

He showers for a long time in the vague hope that by the time he’s done, Deniz will be gone. A futile hope, it turns out; when he steps out of the shower, towel slung around his hips, Deniz is at the sink, fully dressed and gelling his hair. His eyes meet Roman’s in the mirror, and he gives him a nod, friendly but guarded. “Hi!”

“Hey.” Roman cocks his head at the mad hedgehog impersonation currently taking place on Deniz’s head. He can’t quite suppress a grin. “You know, I’ve never met any man, or woman for that matter, of whatever sexual orientation, who spent as much time fussing with their hair as you do with yours. You utter girl.”

Deniz makes a funny face at him in the mirror. “I’d keep quiet if I were you. Your cabinet full of beauty products could keep a medium-sized drug store well stocked for three months.”

They grin at each other for a moment of strange, familiar balance before Roman remembers that they’re hardly on bantering terms, and bends over his bag to fish for fresh underwear. The twinge of pain all along his left side makes itself noticeable just a fraction before Deniz exclaims, “Holy crap!” He whips around, staring at Roman’s exposed shoulder. “Roman… that looks nasty.”

Roman half-shrugs, half-rolls his sore shoulder. “It’s just a bruise. I’ll have Oliver take a quick look before I go home.”

***

Deniz shakes his head, frowning as he takes in the size of the contusion, its red already darkening to purple in sharp contrast to the pale skin surrounding it. “Oliver’s not in today. He’s taking Vanessa round the hospital for ward rounds and stuff.” He turns towards his open locker, digging around in its messy depths. “Hang on, though – I’ve got some ice spray somewhere in here.”

“Don’t worry about it.” There’s a hasty rustle of cloth behind him. “I’ll put an ice pack on it at home or something.”

Deniz frowns and clucks his tongue as his fingers finally close on the small spray dose. “You can’t even reach that yourself. It’ll only take a second.”

Roman’s already pulled on his briefs and jeans, fumbling with the buttons as Deniz steps towards him. He shakes his head, sending stray water droplets flying from his hair, and takes a step back on bare feet. “Really, it’s-“

“Roman.” Exasperated, Deniz grasps him by the other shoulder, spins him around and none too gently pushes him down on the bench. “Don’t be an idiot. This’ll help. I’m not going to grope you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he adds tersely.

For a second, he has every expectation of Roman lurching back up and bolting. The shoulder under his hand is hard with tension, and every line of Roman’s bare back is rigid. Eventually, though, he relaxes fractionally, his shoulders lifting with a sigh. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Deniz echoes, snapping the cap off the ice spray dose with his thumb. He looks down at the hand-sized bruise for a moment, considering the logistics, then flops down on the bench next to Roman, swinging one leg over to straddle it and gently turning Roman around so the bruised shoulder faces him. “Okay,” he says again. “Here comes the cold part.” He wraps one hand around the front of Roman’s shoulder to keep it steady and sprays a thin film of moisture on the purpling bruise. Roman hisses and sits up straighter as the cold mist hits his skin. Deniz makes a shushing sound and sprays on a second layer before putting the spray dose aside.

Roman’s head has dropped forward, exposing the long line of his neck. “Cold,” he complains, moving his shoulder uncomfortably. Deniz doesn’t move his hand. “Sorry,” he says softly. Tiny water droplets still bead on Roman’s back where his towel didn’t reach; at his nape, his damp hair tries to curl. The bruised skin shimmers with the icy moisture, and Deniz runs his thumb around the edges of the sprayed area, smearing it a bit. The urge to move closer, to sneak his arm underneath Roman’s arm and around his chest and pull him close, snug into the cradle of his spread legs, is so strong it’s making Deniz’s fingers itch. From his sideways angle, he can just make out the rosy protrusion of a nipple, and the sight makes him swallow. Heat pools low in his stomach as he imagines leaning forward just a bit so he can close his lips on the puckered flesh and suck it taut; imagines the feel and taste of the stiff nub on his tongue, the sounds Roman might make. He squirms a little on the bench, alarmed at the force of his reaction, and forces himself to think of ice spray, applied deftly to his stirring groin.

It helps, a little.

Roman hasn’t moved, body tilted towards Deniz’s. He’s utterly still beneath his hands, the warmth of his top shoulder a strange contrast to the chilly feel of the shoulder blade under its glistening film of ice. Deniz knows he should move, should get up and brush off his hands and say something cheerful and light, but he might as well be nailed to the bench. His eyes are glued to the slight curve of Roman’s spine, the clean lines of his back, the slight dip at the small of his back before the waistband of his jeans obscures anything lower.

Deniz swallows. The gulping sound seems much too loud. Roman must hear it too, surely. It’s too quiet in here.

“How did you know?”

Lost in the momentary grip of an alternate reality where he’s allowed to slide his hand down and inside that taunting waistband, Deniz jumps a little at the unexpected question, soft though it is. “Uh… what?”

Roman doesn’t look at him; he’s reaching for his t-shirt, deftly turns it the right way out. “The third rotation. The shoulder check. How could you tell?”

“Oh.” Deniz hesitates. “Well, I’d seen it a few times. And you’d had trouble with that move before. It’s why you fell at the Germans, wasn’t it? Your check was too strong.”

Roman’s head comes up at that, his hands stilling on the t-shirt in his lap. He looks at Deniz with a puzzled expression, lips parted in surprise. “You did watch.”

The urge to roll his eyes and say _duh_ is strong, and Deniz resists it manfully. For a good three seconds. Then he gives Roman’s uninjured shoulder a light shake and makes a face at him. “Duh.”

Roman’s mouth twists sideways in something resembling a smile, but he doesn’t look amused, or even strictly pleased for that matter. He looks like he’s trying out this piece of confirmation for size; like a man who’s just bitten into what he thought was a sweet pastry only to find out it’s savoury, and he’s unsure yet whether he likes it.

“I didn’t believe you.”

A bit of the old indignation surfaces in Deniz at that simple admission; remembrance of the fierce flash of hurt he felt when his offer of comfort was slapped back in his face with a sneer. Then he snorts, and sets it aside. “Yeah, well,” he mutters, “I suppose you didn’t have much reason to.”

His hands really are out of excuses to stay where they are, cupping Roman’s shoulder and resting on his back. Reluctantly, Deniz lets them drop into his lap. The fingertips on his right hand are still tingling with cold from where they smeared the ice spray mist across Roman’s skin. Roman’s gaze drops back down on the t-shirt he’s holding, fingers trailing a seam; then he looks back up, meeting Deniz’s eyes with a frank, intent stare. “Thanks,” he says. “That really helped.”

Against all rhyme or reason, Deniz feels something warm and pleasant uncoil inside him, making him feel giddy and stupid. “You’re welcome.”

Roman nods at him sharply and gets up from the bench, pulling his t-shirt over his head and going through his bag for a fresh pair of socks. Deniz stays where he is, rooted to the spot, and watches him dress. It’s only when Roman puts a foot on the bench to do up his shoelaces that he regains the power of speech.

“Roman?”

Roman doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

“I was wondering…” Deniz hesitates, bites his lips, and then blurts, “Could we… get together sometime? For coffee or something? To talk?”

Roman stops in mid-motion, head shooting up to stare at Deniz. This time he looks more than surprised. He looks incredulous.

“Talk?” he repeats slowly, as if he’s never heard the word before.

Deniz jerks his head in a quick nod and soldiers on before his courage can leave him. “What you said at New Year’s Eve, on the lake… I didn’t… I mean, yeah, I didn’t know what to say, because everything just happened and… I didn’t know how to explain. But I think maybe… maybe there are things to talk about? If you want, that is,” he adds hastily, feeling clumsy and oafish and about twelve years old.

Roman is still staring at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Alriiight,” he says eventually, drawing it out. “Deniz Öztürk wants to talk? I think this I’ve got to hear.”

Deniz scowls, not amused by the mockery, but at the same time he can’t help that same stupid giddy feeling doing a slow, shimmying rollover in his stomach. “Uhm. How about tonight? I know it’s short notice, but-”

Roman starts to nod, then stops in mid-motion, shaking his head. “Can’t, sorry. I have a date.”

“Oh.” The pleasant feeling in Deniz’s stomach disappears quick as a finger snap, replaced by something like a cold drain. “A… date?”

“No need to look so surprised,” Roman says sourly, tugging his shoelaces tight. “Men do on occasion find me attractive, you know.”

“That’s not what I… of course,” Deniz murmurs, but the instinct to ball his fists is so strong he can feel his fingers twitching with it. A _date_. A date? What the hell is the bastard doing going on _dates_? He remembers the bar at the Centre, then: the dark-haired bloke leaning close to Roman with a smile. Just some press shark, he thought at the time, spotting the camera, and set himself at ease. Now, he’s not so sure.

“Is it that guy with the camera?” he blurts, before he can stop himself. Roman looks at him with amused annoyance.

“What, do you think I’m totally incapable of meeting anyone outside of the Centre?” Deniz narrows his eyes at him, and Roman actually laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “Yes, fine, my life takes place entirely between the Centre bar and that blasted rink right now,” he concedes with a sigh. “Normal life shall resume once the damn championships are over.”

“So it’s him?” Deniz prods. “That guy?”

Roman gives him a sharp look as he carefully pulls his jacket on over his bruised shoulder. “Why do you want to know?”

“Er, no reason.” Deniz turns abruptly, starts gathering up his scattered hockey gear and stuffs it into his bag with rather more force than necessary. “He looked kinda familiar.”

“You probably saw him on New Year’s Eve.” Roman explains briefly about the photoshoot, and Deniz nods vaguely, not remembering the guy at all and not caring. A _date_. “He seemed… nice,” he offers lamely.

There’s a snort of amusement behind him. “He did. We’ll see.”

Deniz finds himself wishing that the photographer turns out to be a pervert, or a smoker, or a fervent hater of _Showgirls_. He thrusts his helmet into his bag so violently that there’s a hollow clang of impact even through the canvas cloth. “Okay,” he says, too loudly. “Maybe tomorrow, then?”

“Okay… no, wait, that doesn’t work either. Jenny’s coming back and I’m seeing her for dinner – hopefully minus Lars Berger, but with my luck, you never know.” Roman wraps his scarf around his neck and ties a casual knot into it, then stands there considering for a moment. “How about Monday?”

“Sure.” Deniz finds himself nodding like an idiot, although there’s a slightly sour taste at the back of his throat at being lined behind Jenny Steinkamp and a fucking _date_ in the priority list. “Monday’s good. I mean… I’ve got the bar, but it’s a weekday, so it should be pretty dead – I’m sure I can rope Camilla into taking over. Eight o’clock?”

Roman nods back, still looking utterly bemused, and slightly wary. “Eight o’clock. Fine.”

***

Sometimes, Roman reflects as he goes through his wardrobe for date-worthy items, it might be nice to have a normal life. To have his own flat that’s a reasonable distance from his workplace; to have something resembling a boundary between his professional and his personal life; to not have everything he does or says passed on or commented on at great length within hours of its occurrence.

Then again, it would probably be dreary and boring.

“Never mind all that.” Annette, leaning against the doorframe, brushes his account of training aside in a motion so abrupt she nearly drops the coffee mug she’s holding. “I have no idea what any of that meant, other than you managed your combination because of something Deniz said, and I thought we weren’t talking about Deniz anymore,” she adds pointedly. “Let’s stick with the relevant bits, okay? _You have a date_?”

Roman makes a face at her as he pulls shirts from his closet in quick succession and tosses the discarded options onto his bed. “Why is everyone so surprised at this?”

Annette waves her free hand impatiently and makes a noise that sounds like _Nnngggggghhhhh_. “Uh… because it hasn’t happened in forever? One night stands don’t count.”

Roman doesn’t grace that with an answer, but he should know better than to think that would work on Annette Bergmann.

“Don’t make me drag every word out of you!” She’s practically bouncing on her feet, firing questions at him in an alarmingly good impression of staccato gunfire. “What’s his name? What does he do? What does he look like? Where are you going? What are you wearing?”

“Magnus, photography, _“cute but scruffy”_ according to Constanze, _Acquario’s_ in Steele, and I’m deciding.” He gives her the quick run-down on their New Year’s Eve encounter and, more in an effort to fend off her attempts to help pick out his outfit than anything else, hands her the brown envelope with the photograph in it. Annette opens it and gasps. “Oh Roman, that’s beautiful! Was that at Lake Baldeney? Man – you need to get this framed!”

“It’s just a picture,” Roman murmurs, pulling a black button-down from the ever-growing pile of shirts. It’s simply cut but real silk, and slides against his skin lovingly when he shrugs into it. Annette nods approval, but won’t be distracted from the photo. “Yeah, sure, just a picture, and that’s why he comes to give it to you weeks after he met you? He must be really keen!”

“We’ll see,” Roman says, non-committal, and promptly gets shoved lightly in his already bruised shoulder.

“Come on, a little enthusiasm! He took your picture, he seems to like you, and if all goes dreadfully wrong, you’ll still get to eat the best tiramisu in town. Plus, he can’t possibly be more of an asshole than Deniz.”

Roman glares at her from the side as he tucks the black shirt into his pants. “About whom we’re not talking.”

“About whom we’re most definitely not talking,” Annette readily agrees, then frowns at his trousers. “Just jeans?”

“We’re not going anyplace fancy,” Roman says defensively. “Besides, you should see him. Constanze was right about the scruffy part. I’m not going to get all tarted up for someone whose last haircut was probably last millennium.”

“Oh c’mon, it can’t be that bad.” Annette comes over, sets down her mug in passing, and starts fussing with Roman’s hair.

He waits patiently enough, unable to help himself smiling at the earnest little line of concentration between her brows, the unconscious moue of _Hair Is Serious Business_. On impulse, he leans forward and kisses her on the nose, causing her to yelp and rub it exaggeratedly. “What was that for?” she demands, laughing.

Roman grins back at her. “You. Dating War Command.”

Annette pokes her tongue out at him. “Well, I have to experience the exciting dating world vicariously these days. I’ve turned into a boring married woman.”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Yes, married to Ingo Zadek, who wouldn’t know boring if it tried to choke him on sleeping pills. Ingo Zadek who writes you songs and whips up corny Hollywood romance scenarios and worships the ground you walk on. Ingo Zadek, my secret crush these many years, the boots-wearing jokester prince of all my midnight yearnings. Give me a second to pity you.” He pinches her cheek. “There, all done.”

Eventually she takes a step back to inspect him critically. Past her shoulder, in the mirror, Roman does the same. His hair’s not quite cooperating and his posture looks a bit tense, his hip and shoulder still sore from repeatedly smacking into the ice full force. He rolls the bruised shoulder a little to loosen it and remembers, for a brief moment, the warmth of Deniz’s hand resting on it, contrasting with the chill of the ice spray.

He frowns at his reflection, deliberately putting the memory aside. For once, he’s not going to think of Deniz. He’s going to take it easy and enjoy himself.

Annette slides her arms around him from behind and rests her chin on his shoulder – the unbruised one, thank god for small mercies. “You look fantastic,” she approves. “Go be stunning and witty, ravish him over the tiramisu, and make sure to give me all the details tomorrow. If you get home before 3 a.m., I am going to be most displeased.”

He makes a sardonic kissy mouth at her in the mirror, hugs her goodbye, and grabs up his jacket on the way to the elevator. He’s halfway inside when the hectic _clack, clack_ of Annette’s heels rings out behind him and she comes shooting out of his room, looking innocent and intrigued.

“And, uhm. If there’s naughty stuff, make him take pictures!”

Yes. Normal would be boring.

***

The thought of sitting around at home knowing Roman is off on a _date_ with some smarmy press guy is more than Deniz can face.

He calls around for half an hour, trying to find someone he can impose himself on for the evening, without much luck; people are either out already, or otherwise engaged. Deniz tries not to let it get to him. He knows, if he lets himself think about it – which isn’t very often – that he doesn’t have many real friends. Party friends are easy to come by, but he’s learned the hard way that you should never rely on them to be there when you’re anything other than entertaining. The few real friends he’s made since coming to Essen – Tim, Vanessa, Nina – are either far away or they’ve messed things up between them by trying to be more than friends.

He reaches Vanessa eventually, after a string of busy signals, but she doesn’t have time to do anything. She’s already planned a girly night with Juli. “What, like sitting around doing your toenails and smearing green gunk into each other’s faces?” Deniz asks, amused.

Vanessa makes an exaggeratedly twittering noise at him down the line. “Yes, and talk about highlights and what boys we like best,” she retorts sweetly. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Deniz rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, fine, drown in oestrogen.” He pauses, unsure whether to bring it up, but he can’t resist. “Are you… are you two going to be okay? Because of Oliver, I mean?”

“Oh, yeah,” Vanessa says, overly brightly. “Sure. No problem.”

“Right. She’s there, huh? You can’t talk?”

“Mhm.”

Deniz sighs. “Does she know?” he asks, instinctively lowering his voice even though there’s no way Juli can hear him.

“Don’t think so. Anyway, listen, I gotta go, okay? My oestrogen overdose is waiting.”

“Vanessa…”

“See you at practise!” she chirps, in that same, too-cheerful tone, and is gone before he can say anything else.

Deniz shakes his head, worried and bemused. _“Oliver,”_ he murmurs incredulously, before he resumes scrolling through his contacts list.

  
Eventually, he manages to get himself invited to a club with some people from his modelling days. He doesn’t even particularly feel like clubbing but it’s his best option, and it certainly beats sitting at home and imagining Roman having fun with another man… laughing, flirting, doing that casual touching thing he likes to do. Deniz grits his teeth at the thought. Yes, clubbing will be good.

He’s halfway out the door when his mobile rings again. Cursing, Deniz flips it open while grabbing for his jacket with his other hand. He doesn’t recognise the number.

“Hello?”

“Deniz?” A woman’s voice.

“Yeah?” There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Deniz holds the phone between his shoulder and ear while simultaneously trying to put on his jacket. “Hello! Who’s this?”

There’s the sound of a shaky breath in his ear, then: “It’s Julia.”

For a long moment, Deniz’s mind draws an absolute blank. “Julia who?”

An exasperated snort. “Julia von Seidlitz. Really, Deniz. It hasn’t been _that_ long.”

It’s her tone – half impatient, half indulgent – as much as her full name that kicks his memory into gear. “Oh! Julia… uhm, hi! Listen, this really is not a-”

“I need to talk to you.”

Deniz frowns and clears his throat. “If this is about me working for you again, you might as well-“

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” she interrupts him impatiently. “It’s not anything like that.”

“What is it, then?”

She pauses again. There’s a sound like rustling, then a cough. “Listen, Deniz, I’d rather not do this on the phone. Can we meet somewhere? It’s really important.”

Deniz catches himself making a face in the mirror. “Julia… no offence, but I can’t think of a thing that would be important enough for you and me to meet. Besides, I’m really really busy, so if you don’t mind, just tell me what you want and then leave me alone.”

He’s not certain, but he thinks she mutters something under her breath. “Deniz. This is the fourth phone call of this sort I’ve had to make this week, and believe me, it would really, really be better if we could meet in per-“

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Deniz explodes into the phone. “Could you just say whatever you have to say? I’ve got someplace to be and I haven’t got time for your games! And I’m really not interested in meeting with you, so…”

There’s another long silence while Deniz finally succeeds in jamming his arm into the sleeve of his jacket. He’s about to growl a curse at her and hang up when Julia takes an audible breath and says, “I’m positive.”

Deniz switches ears to pull on the rest of his jacket. “Positive about what?” he demands impatiently. “What are you talking about?”

There’s a harsh sound down the line, something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m talking about HIV, Deniz. I’m HIV-positive.”


	9. Interlude 3: Roman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman had forgotten that dating can be fun.

Roman had forgotten that dating can be fun. That seems a ludicrous realisation, but really, thinking back, he finds himself unable to remember the last time he had a proper date. He and Deniz sort of skipped that stage, hopping straight into the relationship drama, and even those times when they did try to go out ended up being sabotaged by daft problems and interferences more often than not. And since then, Roman hasn’t bothered – not that there weren’t offers, just none he cared to take. The simplicity of one-night stands was all he considered himself capable of handling.

“So, Magnus Gunnarsson,” he says, rolling the unfamiliar syllables around in his mouth. “That’s not German, is it? Unless you’re Frisian or something barbaric.”

Magnus laughs. He has a pleasant laugh, Roman’s discovered early on; low and slightly smoky. A bedroom laugh if ever Roman has heard one. “No. Swedish mother, and very proud of it. I’ve often wished she was less so, at least when it came to naming me. Spending your school years being called Magnum, Maximum Moron, or Magneto can really knock the patriotism right out of you.”

Roman coughs into his napkin, and Magnus makes a wry face at him. “Go on, laugh. It’s okay.”

“Sorry.” Roman struggles to get his features back under control, and fails. “Well, er… Magneto was pretty cool, wasn’t he?” he attempts, lips still curling.

Magnus looks amused himself. “Yes, but regularly getting your head wrapped up in tinfoil to create a more authentic picture is not.”

“Fair point.” They grin at each other, and Roman finds, to his own surprise, that yes, he’s having fun. Surely that should not be such an exception to the norm.

Magnus runs a hand through his dark hair, raking it back from his face. Perhaps it’s just the restaurant lamps, but Roman thinks he can detect a hint of red in it when the light hits right. Like himself, the other man is casually dressed, but he cleans up nicely enough; the dark grey shirt sets off his eyes and is unbuttoned enough at the neck to allow a glimpse at a small, round, dark stone he wears on a dark string around his neck. The hair’s too long, for sure, but it looks soft and clean, and he’s even shaved.

It’s only when Magnus clears his throat that Roman realises he’s probably been looking too long and too critically. He tears his gaze away and scrounges for something smooth and non-embarrassing to say, something that won’t give away how unfamiliar he has become with these simple rituals.

Magnus saves him. “So, figure skating,” he says, making a funny little wave in the air. He fiddles a lot, Roman has noticed, talking as much or more with his hands as he does with his mouth. “How did you get into that?”

Roman leans back in his chair, pushes back his plate. “I was nine. A birthday party at a skating rink. I fell in love.”

Magnus grins at him across the table. “With the birthday boy?” A cocked brow. “Birthday girl?”

Roman can’t help smiling back; feels the wine warm in his mouth as he remembers. “With the ice.”

There’s a certain comfort to doing things this way, having a pattern to follow, questions to ask. Where his love life is concerned, things have been in a muddled chaos for so long that he feels as if he’s been skating in the dark, fingertips outstretched to avoid crashing into the boards, never knowing where a jump might take him or if the ice might disappear beneath him when he comes down for a landing.

By contrast, this is like a choreography he’s familiar with, even though he hasn’t performed it in a while, and it’s gratifying to discover he does still know the steps: Exchanging the necessary details, cautiously handing over tidbits of personality, building a basic trellis on which to anchor knowledge of this person who seems intent on knowing him – who listens carefully, throws in the odd wry joke and folds his napkins into clumsy origami shapes without seeming to notice.

Add to that the fact that it’s nice to talk to someone who knows a thing or two about art and culture and doesn’t stare in bemused contempt when he mentions his favourite movies or musicians. They spend an inordinate amount of time cracking up at the fact that they both enjoyed _Step Up_ much more than they should have, and a good twenty minutes’ animated discussion about just how much the male lead and his flexibility had to do with it. (“About ninety percent,” Magnus says candidly, while Roman puts on a prim face and insists that “the dancing was actually very good, choreography-wise.”)

It takes until coffee for exes to come up.

“Ralf,” Magnus confides, nodding his thanks at the waiter as he sets down his cappuccino. “Six years. Which seems like a scarily long time, come to think of it.”

Roman laughs. “It’s terrifyingly long. My last relationship lasted all of six months, and two of those were being cheated on.”

“Ouch!” Magnus says, brows lifting in sympathy, but Roman waves it away. “It’s your turn. Ralf, six years. What happened?”

“He’s a lawyer, and-”

“Okay, that terrifies me more than the six years, to be honest.”

“Oh shut up.” Magnus tosses a sugar sachet at his head across the table. Roman catches it deftly before it can hit him in the face, and they both stop for a moment, caught off guard at how natural that sequence was. Roman clears his throat and puts down the sugar sachet, avoiding the other man’s eyes.

Magnus fiddles with a silver ring on his left thumb, twisting it back and forth. “Uhm, anyway. He got a job offer in the States and decided to pursue it. I’d just rented a studio here, and had finally established a good client base. I didn’t want to move and start over, plus I’m none too fond of the States anyway, so we did the long-distance thing for a while. Four months, to be precise.” He shrugs one shoulder, brows drawn together.

Roman tilts his head. “Let me guess – absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder?”

Magnus’s lips twitch. “Some people say long distance relationships make you stronger… but I think that only works if you were strong to start with. Distance amplifies everything. If you’re close, then yes, a long-distance relationship can strengthen the bond. But if you have doubts, no matter how small or deep-seated… being apart for long stretches of time draws them out and amplifies them.”

Roman runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “So who had doubts?”

Magnus looks up at him then, smiling ruefully although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “He did.” He looks for a second as if he might say more, then shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and Roman doesn’t push.

Magnus takes a long sip from his coffee cup, then gestures at Roman, brows lifted. “Your turn.”

“Oh. Uhm. That’s… a long story.” _And probably a bit much for a first date_ , his head adds, but before he can start on an explanation, he’s brought up short by the faint buzz of his cell phone. He frowns, wondering who on earth might be calling him now. His flatmates all know where he is and that he’s not to be disturbed ( _“unless you run out of condoms!”_ Annette’s bright voice rings in his head). It must be Jenny.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, getting the phone out. After the conversation they just had, seeing the name _Deniz_ illuminated on the little screen gives him an almost physical jolt of weirdness.

“Speak of the devil,” he says, and at Magnus’s questioning look, “Er, it’s my ex. I don’t know what he… sorry, just one sec.” He pushes the green button, lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. “Deniz?”

“Roman.” There’s a weird, shaky breath on the other end, then, “Sorry, I know you’re out. I didn’t mean to… but there’s no one else. I can’t reach my dad and I don’t know what to do. God, Roman – could you come? Please?”

“What? No!” Roman frowns harder, his initial surprise slowly tightening into affront. “What are you doing calling me anyway? If this is some hare-brained scheme to screw up my evening, you can forget about it. Find someone else to bother. Good ni-”

“Roman, please, please don’t hang up!” He’s stopped short by the ragged cry, the sheer panic in Deniz’s voice. His few harsh breaths down the line sound suspiciously like sobs. “Please, I need your help, man. My client called. You know, from… a while back, and… oh god, Roman, this is bad. This is so bad.”

By the time he’s through a muddled explanation filled with panicked sobs, Roman’s heart feels like it’s dropped low into his stomach, weighed down with equal parts fury and mounting concern. “Please,” Deniz finishes, voice shaking. “Please, Roman. I don’t know what the hell to do. Please come.”

“Okay,” he says numbly, vaguely surprised at how normal his voice sounds. “Calm down. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He hangs up on Deniz’s relieved exclamation of thanks, snaps his phone shut and looks up to find Magnus looking at him, questioning and a little worried. “What’s up?”

“That was my ex,” Roman says, before he remembers he’s already said that. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, takes a deep breath.

“Trouble?” he hears Magnus say, and fights the urge to burst into hysterical laughter.

“He’s always trouble. Listen, I know this is the shittiest thing to do right now, but I have to go.” He opens his eyes, wincing in anticipation of the questions and irritation, but Magnus is only looking at him with a mild frown.

“Okaaay?” he says, drawing it out into a question. Roman scrambles for his wallet, waves for the waiter. “Wait,” Magnus says, reaching for his own blazer. “Let me get that.”

Roman shakes his head, already pulling notes from his wallet. “You can get the next one, yeah?”

Magnus stops in mid-motion, gives him a half-amused, half-questioning look. “So there’ll be a next time?”

“Yes… if you want.”

“Can I ask you something?” Magnus asks as they wait for a cab. It’s cold out, the January night air chilly in Roman’s lungs. He nods guardedly.

Magnus nudges a pebble with his shoe, not looking at Roman for a moment; but when he lifts his head, his odd, light eyes are frank and unblinking. “How ex is the ex?” he asks bluntly. “I mean…” he hesitates, scuffing his shoes again, then digs around in his pockets, eventually coming up with a cigarette packet, but he’s only holding it for now, turning it over and over with one hand. “I don’t mean to pry or be pushy. I just want to know…” He coughs, makes an annoyed sort of noise. “God, I suck at subtle. I guess I just want to know what I’m dealing with. And if I shouldn’t get my hopes up for that second date. Because…” he pauses again, then gives Roman a searching look. “Because I’ve been thinking of you since New Year’s Eve. And if there’s no point doing anything about it – I’d rather know up front. So if your phone rings and you dash off because your ex is in trouble…” he clears his throat and thrusts the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket, “…how ex is the ex?”

Roman blinks, the cold air catching in his throat for a second. It takes him a long moment to muster enough breath to reply. “Honestly? I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s… complicated.” He sees the blow land even though it’s no more than a twitch in Magnus’s jaw, and reaches out quickly to put a hand on his arm, feeling it tense underneath his palm. “But equally honestly?” he adds, “I enjoyed myself tonight. More than I have in a long time. More than I thought I could, at the moment. So if you’re up for a risk… I would love to see you again.”

Magnus gives him a long, keen look without saying anything. Roman returns it with as much calm as he can muster, although his heart is beating a bit fast.

Eventually Magnus smiles, his arm relaxing under Roman’s touch. “I’m up for a risk,” he says.

Roman smiles back, noticing a low tingle of pleasure in his stomach. “Great.”

When a taxi pulls up, they stand there awkwardly for a second, caught up in the moment’s indecision about how to handle the goodnight. They step towards each other at the same time, laugh as they figure out which way to do the cheek kiss thing. Despite a lot of time spent in Jenny’s refined dinner party circles, Roman has never quite figured out how to avoid the occasional unplanned head bump with that. He leans in and rises on his tiptoes, brushing Magnus’s cheek with his lips, and is caught by surprise when Magnus turns to meet his lips with his own. It’s only the briefest contact, lips pressing softly against his, a faint whiff of sweet coffee and smoke. Then Magnus steps back, grinning guiltily. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

Roman finds himself smiling back. “It’s okay,” he replies, and registers with a mild thrill of curiosity that he means it.


	10. Penalty Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call. A night on the red couch. A test. Decisions.

_Penalty Box: The penalty box (sometimes called the sin bin) is the area where a player sits to serve the time of a given penalty._

The first thing Roman says as he storms through the door is, “Are there absolutely no limits to your stupidity?!”

He rounds on Deniz, fists clenched. He is so furious he can feel the anger running through him like fine tremors or continuous tiny shocks of electricity. It’s been building ever since he left the restaurant, stood in the cold for fifteen minutes waiting for a cab, and then huddled in the back of the car. Roman has embraced it, has willingly stoked it higher. Anger is good. Anger is mindless and volatile and all-enveloping. Anger is so much better than even the tiniest, traitorous tendril of fear.

“You told me you stopped!” he accuses furiously. “You said it was just the once and that you’d stopped and prime idiot that I am, I even believed you!”

“I did stop!” Always so quick with the indignation, that righteous tone of wounded innocence. Like whatever crimes he’s heaped upon his own record, it’s always supremely unfair for anyone else to believe Deniz Öztürk capable of misbehaviour.

Roman sneers in disgust. “Yeah, right.”

“I did!” Deniz insists.

Roman strides past him, unable to look at him, and unwinds his scarf with so much force that he nearly strangles himself with it. “You’re telling me that your one john – excuse me, client is the term you prefer, right – that the one person you ever slept with for money happens to be positive and is… what? Doing the mercy rounds? Calling around and apologising to any casual shag?” He finally pulls the scarf free and tosses it onto the back of the couch. “Or any pretty whore?”

A stunned silence meets his words. Roman regrets the slur almost immediately, but finds himself unable – and if he’s perfectly honest, unwilling – to take it back. Facing away from Deniz, he puts his hands on the back of the couch for support, head dropping down, and takes a deep breath.

“If you’re lying to me right now, Deniz,” he adds, with a calm so forced it’s making his voice shake, “I swear to you…”

“I’m not.”

It’s the absence of defensiveness in Deniz’s tone that gives Roman pause. The words are spoken quietly, sounding resigned and hollow, almost like Deniz knows there is no point in saying them at all; knows that he’s lied too many times to be believed about anything. But more than anything else, it’s the undertone of desperation that makes Roman look up, makes him really look at Deniz for the first time since he came in, and makes him remember that this was first and foremost a cry for help.

Deniz is still standing near the door, leaning sideways against the yellow archway, wide shoulders in a slump. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening,” he offers, without looking at Roman. “I tried my dad about a dozen times, but he’s not answering his phone… not that I’d even know what to tell him, or that he’d know what to do.” He pushes himself off the wall and takes a few aimless steps into the room, arms flapping up in an aborted shrug. “I don’t even know myself.” He finally lifts his eyes then, looking at Roman with an expression so pleading, so full of stone cold fear that Roman’s heart goes out to him, blithely ignoring the warnings of his head. Deniz’s gaze wavers and drops, only to return a few seconds later, black and imploring. “Roman…”

The sound of his name catching in Deniz’s throat tugs him across the room as if pulled by invisible strings. “Hey, it’s okay,” he hears himself say, although of course it’s anything but. “Deniz. It’ll be okay.” He reaches out, intending nothing more than a cautious pat, really, but Deniz folds into him like some overgrown, boneless kitten. His forehead drops heavily onto Roman’s shoulder and he wraps his arms around Roman, holding on so tightly it hurts.

Helplessly, Roman holds him back.

  
***

  
Under normal circumstances, Deniz would pounce on the opportunity with glee, making the most of his second chance in a day to touch Roman, when usually these days Roman keeps his distance so carefully that he might as well be wearing armour.

The circumstances are anything but normal, though. With panic and denial coursing through his blood at high speed, there’s little room for anything else. The fruity smell of Roman’s shampoo, the warmth of his bare neck against Deniz’s face, blend into a desperately needed offering of comfort, pushing desire far from his mind.

He holds on as long as Roman lets him, clinging to the soothing familiarity of Roman’s shoulders, the strong line of his back. He’s not sure how Roman can tell the exact moment when the danger of Deniz turning into a blubbering mess subsides, but he’s barely taken his first semi-steady breath when Roman rubs a soothing circle on his back and then extricates himself.

“I’ll make some tea,” he says, peeling himself out of his coat without looking at Deniz. “Then we can talk.”

Deniz nods mutely, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He hangs up Roman’s coat, taking much too long about it, then flops onto the couch. A million thoughts are clamouring for his attention and he doesn’t want to face a single one of them. He distracts himself by watching Roman busying himself about the kitchen instead. Roman still seems to know where everything is, moving around with the casual familiarity of someone well used to raiding the Öztürk kitchen cabinets at four in the morning on a regular basis. Deniz almost smiles, then frowns as he remembers that there really isn’t anything to smile about.

With the soothing clutter of kitchen noises in the background, he tries his father’s cell again. It rings and rings, no voicemail clicking on. Deniz is about to hang up when finally there is a click, a pause, and then, _“‘Allo?”_

The voice is smooth and French, slightly impatient, and definitely not his father’s. Deniz frowns. “Uhm… Etienne?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. It’s-”

“Deniz, _oui_. I can see on the display.” Etienne pronounces his name the French way, dropping the “z” altogether. Irritating habit, that.

“Er, yeah. Is my dad there?”

A pause, followed by a murmur off the phone. Then Etienne’s voice is back. “Sorry, Deniz – he cannot come to the phone right now.”

“It’s kind of important.”

“ _Un moment_.”

There’s more murmuring in the background. A mug appears in front of his face, wafting the comforting scent of his father’s _çay_ into Deniz’s nose. He takes it from Roman with one hand, wincing at the hot mug, and nods his thanks at him. Roman sits down opposite him on the short end of the couch, hands wrapped around his own mug. Holding his phone trapped between his ear and shoulder, Deniz transfers his grip to the handle of his mug to avoid burning himself, and nearly drops phone and mug both when he finally hears his father’s voice, crisp and annoyed.

“Deniz? This is really bad timing.” There’s a strangely strained note to his voice that Deniz can’t place.

“Dad, what’s going on? You haven’t called in days. Weren’t you supposed to be back by now?”

“I will be, soon.” There’s a kind of hiss, then a quiet curse in Turkish. “Hang on.”

“Dad? Dad!” There’s no answer. Deniz looks up at Roman, who’s watching him with a frown. He cocks a questioning brow at Deniz, and Deniz shrugs back at him. Then his father is back. “Deniz… sorry, I really can’t talk right now. Could you…”

“What’s up with you, man? You sound really weird.”

“I… er… am dealing with a small problem.” Etienne says something in French in the background. It sounds urgent.

“What?” For a moment, the huge mess of his own life fades marginally. “What kind of problem?”

“Uhm… the kind where I’ve been shot.”

“What?!” Hot tea spills across Deniz’s hand and he curses loudly. Only Roman’s swift reflexes save him from dropping the mug entirely. He quickly reaches out to take the mug from Deniz long enough so he can wipe his hand on his trousers. “What the hell do you mean, shot?!”

“Nothing to worry about,” Marian adds hastily, sounding muffled. “Just a clean one through the shoulder. _Oğlum_ , I’m sorry, I really can’t talk right now. Are you okay? If it’s something about the bar, you’ll just have to handle it on your own.”

“I’m… no, I’m fine,” Deniz says numbly. “God, Dad – what the hell are you doing?”

There’s more commotion on the other end of the line, then Etienne’s voice again, smooth and crisp at the same time. “Sorry, Deniz. Your father will be fine, I promise. He should be home in a few days, no more. But for now, you must excuse us. _Au revoir_.”

A click and the line goes dead before Deniz can say anything. He looks up to meet Roman’s concerned gaze. “What was that all about?”

“Apparently my dad and Etienne are playing Mission Impossible or something.” Deniz throws the phone into the other corner of the couch with enough force to make it bounce twice. “Fuck! He better be okay!”

“He will be.” Roman clears his throat. “It’s just as well you didn’t tell him. You don’t even know anything definite yet, and it sounds like he’s got plenty to worry about already.”

“How the hell did he get himself shot?!” Deniz demands, punching a cushion in frustration. “And what the hell are they doing? If Etienne got him involved in some kind of French mafia shit, I swear to you, I’m going to…”

“You’re going to let them handle it,” Roman interrupts him firmly. “Your father’s a grown man and well capable of sorting out his own messes. _We_ are going to work on sorting out yours.”

Deniz looks up at him but quickly drops his eyes again, unable to face the intent determination in Roman’s gaze. He ducks his face over his steaming mug instead and takes a long swallow. The _çay_ is strong and unsweetened, bitter as it goes down but soothing. Deniz stares at his distorted reflection in the dark liquid, the way his features waver and flow, unable to gain solidity or form. It’s an all too accurate reflection of how he feels.

“How?” he asks, almost inaudibly.

“First of all, by not panicking before we know if there’s reason to,” Roman says curtly, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let’s start with the client. What did he say, exactly? Was he trying to find out where he got it or just informing people?”

Deniz clears his throat. “She,” he says, still avoiding Roman’s gaze.

“What?”

“The client. She’s a woman. Julia.”

  
***

  
Roman silently counts to three and tells himself there’s no particular reason to be annoyed about that. “Of course. Well, whatever. Did she think she got it from you or…?”

“No, she’s the one who’s… she was just calling to let me know.” Deniz takes a shaky breath, then washes it down with more tea. “She said she’s trying to reach anyone who… could be at risk.”

Roman grimaces. “That’s gotta be fun.”

Deniz doesn’t respond, continuing to stare miserably into his mug as if there are answers to be found there. His entire body droops. Roman frowns, then clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says briskly. “What are we looking at?”

Startled dark eyes meet his. “What?”

“The probabilities!” Roman demands impatiently. “How much of an idiot have you been? Did you not use condoms?”

Deniz swallows visibly, avoiding his eyes. “Uhm… usually we did. But there were a couple times… it was after this boring gala where we both got really drunk, and we didn’t have any, and the machine was broken, so…”

Roman cuts him off with a wave. He really doesn’t want to know the details.

Deniz lifts his head, eyes suddenly huge, looking terrified. “Roman, what if… I mean, you and me. What we… if I… if I was… you couldn’t have got it, could you? Not from…?”

“It’s pretty unlikely.” Roman is proud of how certain his voice sounds, although the same thought has occurred to him too, of course. He spent the better part of the cab ride going over the night in the machine room, trying to remember each detail, running through risks of infection in his head. “Not from a handjob and some frotting,” he adds bluntly.

Deniz looks only marginally comforted, and Roman quickly adds, “I’m not just saying that. Anyway, there’s no point fretting about that before we’ve figured out what the deal is.”

Deniz’s Adam’s apple bobs and he nods hesitantly. “Okay. What do I do?”

Roman sets his mug down, glad to be focusing on the practical aspects. “You get tested. There’s a Health Centre downtown. They’ll be closed by now, though. I think they open at nine. When did the no condom thing happen?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Well, try to be!” Roman insists. “Think! This is important!”

Deniz’s brow furrows. “About three months ago… no, wait, four. It was November.”

“Okay.” Roman exhales consciously and tries to force a smile. “That’s good.”

Deniz’s hopeful expression could have been heartbreaking, if Roman hadn’t spent the better part of a year trying to build up an immunity to any Öztürk-related heartbreak. “What? Why?”

“Because your risk incident has to be at least three months ago for the test to work. Any less than that and you won’t get a reliable result.”

He gets up and crosses the living room, finding it easier not to look at Deniz’s eyes, which are glued to his face as if he could magically fix this. “It’s not a huge thing. They make you have a consultation talk, ask a few questions, and take some blood.”

“How long does it take?”

“Normally a few weeks-”

There’s a sharp intake of breath behind him; when he glancing over his shoulder, he sees Deniz frozen to the spot with a horrified look on his face.

“No, don’t panic,” Roman adds quickly. “There’s a quicker one, too – the rapid HIV test. That one’s not free, but it only takes half an hour.”

“Oh.” Deniz blinks, looks down at his hands, still wrapped around his barely touched mug. “Okay. Right.”

Without even a moment's warning, there's a flash of motion; dark liquid arcs through the air and splatters wetly against the wall, only a split second before the harsher impact of shattering ceramic as the mug breaks, raining shards down on the floor. Startled, Roman ducks instinctively, although he's nowhere near the direction of the sudden violent throw.

"Fuck!" Deniz's voice is a harsh, ragged cry that nearly breaks at the highest point. "Fuck, fuck, fucking, FUCKING hell!" He's bent over his knees and digs his hands into his hair, cradling his bowed head; his fingers clench as if he's trying to pull off his own scalp. "Fuck," he says again, a breathless sob this time, into his knees.

The smell of tea is strong in the flat, and Roman realises he's still frozen in a half crouch, one hand on the chair he was going to use for cover. He straightens up and swipes his tongue across his suddenly dry lips. "Deniz..." he starts, but Deniz interrupts before his name has finished leaving Roman’s lips.

“Stupid,” he says viciously, his voice only slightly muffled by the hands wrapped over his head. “I’m so fucking stupid, Roman. All I ever do is screw shit up.”

Roman can’t stop himself from agreeing. “You do have a certain knack.”

Deniz talks on as if he hadn’t heard. “I fucked things up with you,” he says, “multiple times. With Vanessa, too. All that shit with the drugs, and those models…”

Sympathy or no, the last thing Roman wants is a reminder of those times and the role he played in them. “Can we not go over the list?” he says sharply. “Those things have got nothing to do with what’s happening now, and it’s pretty pointless to throw yourself a pity party before you even know if you need one.”

Deniz doesn’t answer. From the bowed curve of his back and neck, hands curled over his head, to his forehead dropping onto his knees, he’s a study in misery. Roman registers a brief flash of intense fury – not at Deniz, but at the faceless woman, some wealthy trollop who’d hire a nineteen-year-old for sex and couldn’t be bothered to put a rubber on the bloody idiot if he was too drunk or too stupid to do it himself.

Carefully, he steps around the shards of the broken mug and sits down next to Deniz, putting a hand on his bent back. “Try to pull yourself together,” he says in a gentler tone. “You’ll get the test done tomorrow and then we’ll go from there, okay?”

After what seems an eternity, Deniz finally nods, then cranes his neck to look at Roman over his shoulders. His eyes are red but dry. “Will you come with me?”

Roman only hesitates for a split second before he nods. “Of course.”

  
***

  
Roman claims he’s already had dinner, and Deniz’s stomach clenches tightly at the very notion of food. He orders pizza for them anyway, not really caring if Roman sees through his lame ploy as long as he doesn’t, in fact, leave.

And he doesn’t. He sits on the couch with his feet pulled up under him, sipping at a fresh mug of tea, one eye on some reality show on TV while Deniz cleans up the shards of the mug he broke. Lena’s over at the WG again, like most evenings; Deniz suspects it’s only a matter of time before she’ll actually move back there to have Annette’s constant support with the pregnancy. He hasn’t really noticed how empty the flat has been lately until now, when the inane chatter on the TV screen seems oddly warmer, cosier with someone else around. He wonders fleetingly what it says about him that it takes the threat of an incurable illness to get some company for an evening.

Like before, the very thought of what may be lurking in his blood fills him with numb fear, and he shoves it violently back. He can’t think of that. He won’t think of that. Not before he knows.

Wildly, he gropes for something to say, anything to distract him. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night,” he says to Roman. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

“That’s pretty damn pathetic,” Roman retorts, but mildly.

Deniz tries to ignore that and asks instead, with forced lightness, “How’d it go?”

Roman casts a sharp glance at him. “That’s none of your business.”

Deniz straightens up to dump the shards and soiled kitchen towels in the bin. “Oh, come on. Not even a little bit of gossip? Did you have fun? What did you do?” The tone he intended to be light and teasing comes out brittle, uncomfortably desperate.

Roman’s eyes have narrowed, his shoulders drawn up slightly. “Deniz,” he begins warningly. Deniz quickly raises his hands, palms out, but he’s rescued by the arrival of the pizza. He’s still not hungry, but he takes a slice anyway and sits down next to Roman on the couch.

The silence is long and uncomfortable, interrupted only by the talk show host going on about internet romances gone bad. Deniz is acutely aware of Roman next to him on the couch. Of the familiar way he’s got one leg curled under him and the other drawn up close, his chin nearly resting on his knee. There’s enough space between him and the back of the couch that Deniz can just picture himself filling that gap, sliding in behind Roman and wrapping his legs around him, feeling the curve of his back fitting perfectly against his chest. Burying his face against the curve of Roman’s neck and disappearing there, with Roman firm and immovable between him and the rest of the world with its mysterious gunshot wounds and test results and phone calls that can change your life.

He only realises that he’s been staring too openly and too long when Roman looks from the screen to him. Some of his distress must be showing on his face, because Roman frowns and cocks his head at him.

“How are you holding up?”

Deniz shrugs, nibbling listlessly on his crust. “How do you think? Going nuts.”

“I’m sorry,” Roman says, dragging one hand through his hair so it stands comically on end. “Stupid question.”

“If I’m…” Deniz begins, but finds he doesn’t know how to end either thought or sentence. He half expects Roman to interrupt him again, to tell him not to think that way, but Roman takes a deep breath and rearranges on the couch to face him, legs crossed beneath him. The motion eliminates the space behind him. Regret tugs at him, faint and absurd.

“If you’re,” Roman says firmly, “it will suck, and it’ll mean changes, but it won’t mean you’ll drop dead tomorrow or anytime soon. This isn’t the 80s anymore. But Deniz,” he says quickly when Deniz opens his mouth, “in less than twelve hours you’ll know. One step at a time, okay?”

He nods reluctantly, trying to think of anything that would fill twelve hours, anything that would keep him from envisioning the rest of his life dominated by hospital scrubs, blots of red blood on sample swabs, and the blooming night flowers of Kaposi’s sarcoma.

There’s no way to get away from that entirely, but perhaps he can at least direct those thoughts another way. “You seem to know a lot about it. Getting tested and stuff, I mean.”

“Yes. There’s this quaint little concept called safe sex. You may have missed it in school, since you dropped out to be a supermodel and all, but…”

Deniz lets him drone on, feeling strangely comforted by the lecture; by the sound of his voice, wry and slightly exasperated, the precise way he enunciates, the way he never says anything simply when he can be elaborate.

“Did you ever…?”

“Get tested?” Roman snorts. “Of course. This stuff is important. For straight people too, I might add.”

“No, I know,” Deniz says impatiently, tossing his half-eaten pizza slice back in the box. “I meant did you ever think – did you ever have…”

“A scare?” Deniz nods. Roman is silent for a few moments, looking down on his hands clasped in his lap.

“Yeah. Once.”

“What happened?”

Roman reaches for the remote to turn down the volume on the telly. “I was a couple years younger than you. Just venturing out into the gay clubs, living the life.” A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, fond amusement for his younger self, perhaps. “I had this one-night stand and the condom ripped. The guy was kinda skeevy and he disappeared on me so fast I got suspicious, and worried.” He shrugs. “Plus I was kind of obsessive about that in the first place, not that I wanted to be, but it was my dad’s number one argument, and I just couldn’t get his voice out of my head, telling me I’d catch AIDS and die a miserable, lonely death.”

His light tone cannot entirely mask the underlying bitterness, and Deniz finds himself suddenly wondering why he doesn’t know this. Why he always simply accepted the fact that Roman’s parents were out of the country, out of the picture, that they never got mentioned, never got called. It was always about _his_ family issues, about Marian’s problems with his coming out, about their many blow-ups large and small, about the fact that his mother doesn’t care and was glad to be rid of him. Granted, Roman never volunteered information, but that in and of itself should have struck his curiosity, the fact that there is something in the world that Roman Wild does not readily talk about.

 _I should have asked_ , he thinks, regret settling in the pit of his stomach together with the tight knot of fear and three bites of pizza.

Across the couch, Roman makes a face. “So I found out where to go and what to do. They didn’t have the fast tests back then,” he adds, looking down at his fingers, curled around his foot. “It was a very long two weeks.”

Deniz tries to imagine being alone in this in-between place of terror and uncertainty for two weeks, and fails. He swallows. “Your dad really said that?”

Roman gives him a resigned smile. “More than once.”

“Damn.”

He thinks of his own father and his raging temper, his possible reaction to the incredible mess Deniz has got himself into. Try as he might, he can’t imagine anything but Marian giving him a hug after he’s done killing him. The thought gives him a pang, and he suddenly desperately wishes his father were here, so he could rip Deniz’s head off for being stupid, and Deniz could rip _his_ head off for getting shot. And Roman could tell them both off for not making things any better, and somehow all that would actually _make_ things better.

Except things are already better, just with Roman here, and it’d admittedly nice not to get his head ripped off just yet.

“Alright, it’s late,” Roman says, interrupting Deniz’s thoughts. He unfolds his legs and leans down to fish for his shoes. “I should go. I’ll pick you up around eight tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Don’t go.” The words blurt out of him before he can consider them; before he’s had so much as a second’s space to think. Startled, Roman looks up at him, one shoe in his hand. It’s costing Deniz all his self-control not to pounce on him and physically restrain him from leaving. He gestures wildly around the flat, mostly to disguise the fact that his hands are shaking. “If I have to be by myself right now, I’ll go nuts. Can’t you… we could watch a movie, or play Bavouche, or whatever, just…” He swallows the rising panic, forces his voice to stay somewhat level, “god, Roman, please stay. Please.”

The expression on Roman’s face is hard to read; there’s sympathy there, for sure, but alarm as well, and subtler things as well, not one of them pleased. Every muscle in his face seems tense. The sharp bones of his face are a study of conflicts, and Deniz feels a sharp stab of guilt for doing this to him, dragging him into this, needing him so much it’s physical. But he can’t help it. He holds Roman’s troubled gaze, silently pleading, and eventually Roman exhales a soft sigh of defeat.

“Okay. But the minute you bring out the Bavouche, Deniz Öztürk, I am out of that door.”

Deniz is so relieved he can’t even think of a quip. He smiles shakily. “Okay.”

  
***

  
Roman can’t remember ever spending a whole night on the red couch. There were long evenings of banter or companionable telly watching while they were still dating – evenings disturbingly reminiscent of now, where they’d sprawl comfortably, making fun of whatever they were watching, lazily groping under a blanket. And there were the other times, when they’d tumble onto the red upholstery either in giggling abandon or near-angry passion, limbs tangling against the soft rasp of the fabric, mingling the air they breathed in their need to get skin to skin.

But sooner or later they’d change locations, retiring to the privacy of Deniz’s bed or going back to Roman’s place.

Yet here he is, in the dimmed living room of the Öztürk flat at some nameless hour past midnight; the TV long since turned off, and Deniz a warm, heavy weight against his side, chest rising and falling evenly. It’s a complete mystery to Roman how anyone could sleep after the news he’s had, but there he is, head cushioned on Roman’s shoulder and his sleeping breath a warm, even gust against Roman’s exposed collarbone. Roman doesn’t know when he fell asleep. They’d been quiet for a while, each hanging onto their own thoughts, and Roman had just turned to ask Deniz if he wanted to talk some more, or watch another movie, when Deniz had drooped, eyes closed, gracelessly onto his shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Roman, of course, finds himself completely unable to sleep. Oh, he’s tired, alright – he can feel the exhaustion of a long training session deep in his bruised muscles, overlaid by the emotional fatigue of the evening. But sleep is out of the question.

He’s spent almost a year in various stages of getting over Deniz. Spent an embarrassing amount of time imagining ways that Deniz could change, alternate realities that could give them another shot. Like some stupid teenager, he’s conjured up fantasies, scenarios in which Deniz would realise he still loved him, would be appalled and contrite at the damage he’d wrought. How he’d turn a new leaf, tame himself, curl himself under to fit once again against the jagged, bleeding edge he ripped into Roman’s life when he left. How he’d grow up, and all the hurts of the past would become just that: past. Over.

That’s done and gone, of course; he no longer needs those schoolboy fantasies to sustain him through another day. He’s long since been back on his feet, having regained the tattered shreds of his heart and self-esteem and grimly put them back together, reapplying the glue over and over until it actually stuck. Whether or not Deniz Öztürk ever grows up is no longer any of his concern. Yet now, curled up in a corner of the red couch with Deniz warm and stupidly trusting against his left side, Roman finds himself wishing that it won’t have to happen this way. He wishes fervently that tomorrow won’t have to be a catalyst for that maturation. Whatever changes come or don’t come, Deniz should get to set his own pace. And if he never grows up, if he always stays as he’s been, brash and dazzling and trampling over other people’s feelings as exuberantly and thoughtlessly as a puppy trailing mud across carpets, then that’s fine too. Better than the alternative, anyway.

Beside him, Deniz stirs sleepily, mumbles something unintelligible, and slowly rolls down from Roman’s shoulder, instead sprawling on his lap without waking up, his face tucked against Roman’s belly and one arm curled possessively around Roman’s thigh. Roman automatically reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder. _Don’t_ , he thinks mindlessly, not sure who he’s addressing. _Don’t_.

Eventually, he dozes, but awareness of his surroundings never really leaves him: the couch, the dim outlines of familiar furniture, the smell of cold pizza. And Deniz, sleeping in his lap as if there’s nothing wrong, as if nothing can touch him unless he invites it. Roman sits still, eyes shut, beneath the surface of waking, and waits for morning.

 

***

  
Afterwards, the time he spent sitting in the Health Centre’s sunlit waiting room will become indefinable; the details of the brochures and posters and the faces of the two or three other people pretending to read magazines will fade and blur into insignificance. What he remembers is reaching out, almost unconsciously, for Roman’s hand as they sit down, and Roman letting him have it, fingers entwining warmly with his. He has to swallow the gratitude lest it bubble up and out of him into his sterile surroundings.

What he remembers is that Roman let him hold his hand.

He’s holding on now, looking down at their clasped hands because it’s something better than the intimidating brochures and the tattered mags. Instead, he makes a close study of the way Roman’s hand fits neatly inside his, how much shorter Roman’s fingers are, the different shapes of their nails. Strange to think that these hands, so different from his own, know every inch of him as intimately as he does himself. More so, perhaps, considering how diligently they once learned the pathways of his skin.

Realising his safe place to focus on has become anything but safe, Deniz tears his eyes away and stares blandly at a checklist of symptoms on the wall next to the reception counter until a nurse steps in and calls out his name.

“Mr. Öztürk, is it? Come on in.”

Deniz hesitates for a second, reluctant to let go of Roman’s hand. “Do you wanna…?” he starts, but the nurse interrupts him, shaking her head gently but firmly. “Sorry, but these consultations are strictly confidential. Your partner will have to wait here. It won’t take long,” she adds.

Deniz doesn’t bother to correct her about the “partner” bit. Surprisingly, neither does Roman. He nods at Deniz and gives his hand a firm squeeze before letting go. “Go on. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

He’s not sure what he expected, but the office is heated and friendly, with plants and light-coloured IKEA furniture. The nurse gestures towards a chair in front of the cluttered desk dominating the room. “A consultant will be with you shortly. She’ll go over a few questions with you and then I’ll see you in the lab for the blood test.”

Deniz nods mutely and sits down. The nurse busies herself with some files, then leaves the room without a second glance at him. There’s an encounter at the door as she nearly bumps into someone, a burst of laughter that grates against Deniz’s overstrained nerves, a quick, murmured conversation. He turns his head just in time to see a different woman enter the room. The consultant, he assumes.

She’s about his father’s age and wearing normal clothes instead of the white lab coat, her ash-blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun. Her square, black-framed glasses give her face a severe appearance, but the smile she gives him is sincere.

“Mr. Öztürk? My name is Ms. Schreyer.”

“Hi,” Deniz mumbles. She sits down opposite him and rummages through the scattered papers on her desk for a moment before unearthing a clipboard she pulls towards her.

“Right,” she says, folding her hands on top of it and looking at him over the top of her glasses, a habit he’s always found particularly unnerving in spectacle wearers. “I understand you’re here to take the rapid HIV test today.”

He nods mutely, then forces himself to say, “Yes.”

“Alright. Just to familiarise you with our procedure here, we don’t offer tests with outcomes of such potential significance on a person’s life without any kind of accompanying measures. It is our policy to have a basic consultation with the patient first. I’m just going to go over some questions with you – nothing to be alarmed about,” she adds in a reassuring tone, seeing something in his face, “it’s just to give me an idea about your general situation, and then we’ll talk about the test itself before I send you down to the lab, okay?”

Deniz murmurs assent, already itching to get on with it, but this woman doesn’t strike him as someone easily deterred from her protocol.

She clears her throat and leans forward, her hands folded atop the sheets on her clipboard. Deniz absentmindedly notices that she wears fake nails with intricate art on them, starburst patterns in turquoise and silver. “Now, as I already said, the results of an HIV test can have a huge impact on a person,” she continues. “If your test does come back positive, there will be changes to your life. We provide you with a full follow-up consultation here at the Health Centre to give you some idea of what to expect and what to do next.”

He nods again, and breathes a small sigh of relief as Ms. Schreyer takes up her clipboard and a pen, the introductory speech apparently over.

“Okay. Let’s start with a few details about you. How old are you, if I may ask?”

“Nineteen.”

“And this is the first time you’ve been tested for HIV?”

“Yes.”

She circles something on her sheet. “How long have you been sexually active? And yes, blowjobs count,” she adds, with a matter-of-factness that Deniz finds more than alarming.

“Uhm, uhm…” He thinks back frantically, trying to remember his first fumbling attempts with girls in Munich. “About three years.” Just as well, he thinks; if he didn’t include those, he’d have to admit that he was bloody _eighteen_ the first time he actually got laid, and that’s just too mortifying. He knows he’s being stupid and that’s the last thing that should matter right now, but he can’t help it.

She nods and scribbles. “And did your sexual partners to date include men, women, or both?”

“Er…” Deniz finds his face is already hot, and they haven’t even gotten to anything truly embarrassing yet. “Actually I’m here about… I mean, I want to get tested because of a specific… you know, there’s a specific incident I’m worried about. It’s not… I haven’t been…”

Ms. Schreyer interrupts him gently but firmly, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I understand, Mr. Öztürk, but nevertheless it’s important to get a general idea of your sexual history. I assure you this is completely confidential.”

There’s no refuting her kindly professional attitude. Deniz finds her deeply terrifying. “Right. Uh. Okay.”

“So,” she repeats. “Sexual partners to date. Male, female?”

“Both,” he says quickly, feeling his cheeks heat even more, but she doesn’t seem to notice, head bowed once more over her notes.

“Over the past year, how many different sexual partners have you had? An approximate number is okay if you can’t remember exactly.”

 _Jesus._

“Uhm…” He rolls the months over in his head, trying to think. It starts out easy, of course: Roman, Vanessa, Kaja, Julia… then there are those fuzzy times, too brightly coloured and blurry at the same time, the smell of perfume and the slight tickle of coke in his nose, and shadowy bodies, voices shrill with alcohol and lust. He’s not sure how many.

The consultant, seeing his indecision, tries to help him out. “Just roughly. More than thirty?”

Deniz shakes his head, absurdly scandalised. “More than ten?” she prompts patiently.

“Uhm. Less than ten, I think.”

“Okay...” She ticks off a box, then flips to the next sheet.

“Now, these next few questions are about the specifics of sexual encounters – I’ll try to make it painless,” she says, with a quick smile, but this time it doesn’t reach her eyes. Deniz nods mutely, his hands held tightly clenched in his lap.

“Again referring to the past year, have you had any incidents of unprotected vaginal intercourse?”

Tightness in his throat, sudden and harsh. “Y-yes, one. Uhm, one or two, that is. In November.”

Ms. Schreyer jots down her notes, pausing briefly to look back up at him. “Would that be the specific incident that brought you here today?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Now as to your other sexual encounters over the past year: Any receptive or insertive oral intercourse without protection?”

“Erm. Yes.” Deniz blinks at her, surprised. “But that was… I mean. Only with my – with my boyfriend at the time. It was… he’s not… that was, like, safe.”

Ms. Schreyer looks up briefly, once again fixing him with her unnervingly direct gaze over the top of her glasses. “ _Safe_ is a term we hear a lot here, Mr. Öztürk. I’m afraid it’s also extremely relative.”

She ticks off boxes. Probably _yes_ and _yes_ , for more risk factors, Deniz thinks, and struggles against a sudden irrational wash of anger. Roman isn’t a risk factor. Roman is outside that door, waiting for him. Roman walked out on a date just to help. He wants to yell at her, but of course it’s not her fault. She’s just doing her job.

He forces himself to relax, to tell himself that if this is anyone’s fault, it’s Julia’s, and his own. The thought is a hollow one; blame hardly ever seemed so irrelevant.

“Nearly done,” Ms. Schreyer says mildly, as if sensing his irritation. “Any receptive or insertive anal intercourse without protection?”

“No,” Deniz says firmly, with an almost defiant satisfaction he can’t quite suppress. There’s never been any question of that, not with Roman. No matter how drunk they were or how awkward the circumstances, there was always a condom.

Ms. Schreyer cocks an ironic brow at him but doesn’t comment.

“Okay. So we have one or two risk incidents of unprotected vaginal intercourse in November and a number of incidents of unprotected oral sex both receptive and insertive. Any drug use involving shared needles?”

Deniz shakes his head and dazedly makes his way through another half dozen, less invasive questions before the consultant moves on to explaining the test itself, talking about antibodies and window periods and the possibility of false positives. Deniz nods and nods until his neck hurts, hands wrapped so tightly about each other now that they feel numb. The sunlit room suddenly doesn’t seem so bright anymore; there’s a faint smell of disinfectant and desperation, and the desktop is scratched. Deniz can’t help wondering how many people walked out of here with their lives changed forever. Can’t help wondering if he’s the next on the tally. His hands are cold. He holds them tighter.

  
***

  
When Deniz finally steps back into the waiting room, alarmingly pale beneath his dark hair, Roman practically shoots to his feet. The minutes have been ticking by agonisingly slowly, and the real waiting hasn’t even begun yet.

He meets Deniz’s eyes, near-black with anxiety, sees the convulsive motion of his throat as he swallows.

“Thirty minutes,” he says softly.

Roman nods. “Do you want to wait in here?” he asks with as much calm as he can muster, embarrassingly relieved when Deniz immediately shakes his head. “Okay. Let’s go outside, then – walk round the block or something?”

Deniz jerks a nod, then straightens and half turns, gesturing towards the counter. “I still have to pay for the… for the thing.”

Roman stops him with a hand on his arm. “Already did it.” Deniz blinks at him and he smiles, feeling it stretch across his too-tense face. Fifteen Euros for certainty: not too bad, all things considered. Fifteen Euros between Deniz’s life or death… _oh you moron, you know it’s not that, not anymore. Cut the melodrama._ It’s hard, though, when he can still hear his father’s gloomy predictions, the ugly visions of a lonely, sad life, and a sadder death.

 _It’s not. Like that. Anymore_ , he tells himself grimly, willing himself to believe it.

“Let’s go.”

  
There’s a small, fenced-in playing ground three quarters around the block. Whether due to the cold or the morning, it’s empty. They walk into the enclosure without speaking. Roman sits down on a swing, his feet scuffing the mulch beneath. He never liked to swing when he was little. He liked sitting in them, but not to swing; while the other kids would challenge each other to fly as high as they could, making the old swing set rattle in its foundations, Roman would dangle head down from his swing, watching the world upside down, wondering at how different it was.

He’s so tired. He’s reached that odd state of utter exhaustion where everything seems to thin at the edges, stretching the fabric of perception into a distorted mirage. The sky is grey and fragile-looking, like opaque glass, and he wonders if he hurled a rock hard enough, whether he could break it.

Deniz is wandering the playground, evidently too restless to sit. His fingers trail along the dusty railing of a swing, along the knotted climbing rope dangling from a wooden beam. He’s always like this, Roman thinks idly, always on the verge of motion. Roman has seen the rare moments when he comes to rest, when he’s sweet and earnest and languid; the moments when he listens, when he opens up. Even today, Roman doesn’t know for sure if they were glimpses at something real or random misfires not quite in Deniz’s nature. Still, Roman has treasured those moments beyond all common sense, knowing they were not easily given, not to just anyone. Funny how it can be so very easy to love someone, and so profoundly irrelevant.

  
***

  
Deniz paces the perimeter of the small enclosure over and over, meandering between the playground equipment. His heart is pounding the seconds away, but not nearly fast enough. In between his rounds, he casts furtive glances at Roman, who’s sitting about as still as it’s possible to sit on a swing, leaning sideways against the thick rope. His head is tilted back so he can look up at the sky. Deniz wonders what he’s looking at – a quick glance up shows nothing but grey clouds – but is quickly distracted by how the posture exposes the lone line of Roman’s neck. He suddenly feels a strong urge to run over there and block out the gloomy grey light, to set the swing in motion and make Roman yelp. To tackle him and bear him backwards into the mulch, or simply reach out and touch him, disrupting the stillness around him. He doesn’t understand how something that mundane, the urge to reach out and touch somebody, can eclipse everything else he should be worrying about.

In the end, of course, he doesn’t touch. When it’s finally time to leave, they walk back in silence, a good two feet’s distance between them.

“Right,” Ms. Schreyer says briskly, gesturing for him to sit back down. “That was straightforward enough. Negative.”

She gives him a brief smile, pushing a sheet of paper at him across the desk. For a long, panic-fluttery moment, Deniz only stares at her, before he remembers that negative means good. Negative means… he’s okay.

“You’re okay,” the consultant confirms, seeing his expression, and even leans across to pat him briefly on the back of his hand, her smile deepening a little. Deniz feels suspended, curiously frozen.

“Really?” he hears himself ask.

She nods. “Really. Now, there are a few things I want you to keep in mind…”

He nods automatically as she talks at him about safe sex and STDs and half a dozen other things disguised in medical jargon but all boiling down, in the end, to _Don’t be stupid._ There’s a buzzing kind of noise in his ears, and his hands are hot and unpleasantly damp.

“Alright, before you go and tell your boyfriend the good news, take this.”

Ms. Schreyer shoves a clear plastic bag with a resealable zip at him, containing small packets of lube, dental dams, brochures, and what looks like about three dozen condoms. “Use this,” she says with great emphasis. She fixes him with that terrifying stare over the rim of her thick black glasses, but somehow he finds that the look has lost its power.

“You can go, then,” she ends. “And Mr. Öztürk?”

“Yes?”

“You were lucky. Don’t bank on that happening again.”

He nods frantically, automatically. “Y-yes. Yes. Thank you. Man… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t.”

Clutching the safe sex kit and his results sheet, he stumbles out into the waiting room. Roman’s seat is empty, and Deniz’s heart speeds up, until he sees him pacing the narrow corridor outside the open glass door. Believing himself unwatched, his face gives away more than it has since the first time he stepped inside Deniz’s flat last night: his expression is entirely naked and the fear in it is real and brutal, hollowing his eyes.

It’s all Deniz can do not to shout, to remember there are others in the waiting room who may not be as lucky. Even so, he practically hurls himself out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. Roman’s head whips up at his approach, but Deniz only sees his alarmed expression for a split second before he all but slams into him, bearing them both back against the wall. Roman makes a muffled noise of alarm, and Deniz just barely brings his hand up in time to spare him the impact before he crowds close, arms wrapped tightly about Roman and his head buried in the crook of his neck.

“Negative,” he blurts against the warm skin underneath Roman’s ear. “It’s negative, Roman, I’m okay, it’s negative.”

He can feel rather than hear Roman’s huge exhalation, the rise of his chest against his own, followed by a sudden deflation. “Oh thank god,” Roman breathes, hands digging painfully into Deniz’s shoulder blades. “Fuck, thank god.”

They’re both talking at the same time, curses and explanations and questions, and Roman inquires after his stuffed kit. They both giggle like twelve-year-olds at the amount of condoms as they make their way slowly downstairs, leaving behind the clinical smell of disinfectant and fear.

The morning air outside hits their flushed faces in a welcome rush of chill. They pause on the sidewalk, momentarily out of things to say. Deniz feels a stupid grin stretch his face. He feels drained, but also giddy and light and invincible, like he could run all the way back home. Like nothing can touch him.

There’s an answering smile on Roman’s face, but it’s more guarded, his customary caution already settling back in after the initial exuberance of overwhelming relief. It gives Deniz a pang to see those threads of self-protection slip into place. He doesn’t actually remember the last time Roman smiled at him fully, the way he once used to, warm and without reservations. It hits him sharply and unexpectedly how much he misses it.

“Roman…” he starts, and immediately the wariness on Roman’s face solidifies, setting them farther apart. Deniz swallows. “Look… thank you. For last night. I don’t know what… I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Roman shrugs and nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re welcome.”

The urge to hug him again is irresistible, and Deniz gives in to it, ignoring the way Roman goes rigid in his arms for a second before he relaxes.

“And I’m sorry I made you worry,” he adds, breathing in cold winter air and the smell of Roman’s hair.

Roman’s shoulder bumps Deniz’s chin as he shrugs. “I’m used to it,” he says lightly, then nudges Deniz in the ribs, using the playful poke to break their embrace. “Just don’t do that again, okay?”

Deniz nods, hands still on Roman’s arms, reluctant to let go. “Do you wanna get a cab?”

Roman shakes his head and takes a step back so Deniz has to either drop his arms or follow him. He settles for the former, although his fingers curl at the loss of contact. “Actually, I’ve got a couple of things to do while I’m in town,” Roman says. “So you go ahead.”

“Oh.” Deniz nods, feeling oddly reluctant to part ways. It’s been over twelve hours; the longest amount of time, surely, he’s spent with Roman in recent history, and the last thing he wants to do is let go. “Okay,” he forces himself to say. “I’ll see you later, then? Or at least for coffee, tomorrow?” he adds hopefully, remembering their agreement.

He doesn’t know if he imagines the slight stiffening of Roman’s shoulders this time, but after only a moment, he nods. “Sure. See you later.”

  
***

  
He lied, of course. There’s nowhere he has to be, and nowhere he _wants_ to be except his own bed, but for a second there, wrapped tightly in Deniz’s arms, he felt a wash of claustrophobia – a blind kind of panic, like if he spent even two seconds longer in Deniz’s embrace, he’d lose himself in the moment’s sensation of pure relief and gratitude, forget who he was, forget…

Forget.

He’s tired. He doesn’t remember the last time he was this tired: relief and gratitude and irritation and agony all blend with a thick layer of bone-deep exhaustion, both emotional and physical. He hopes Annette won’t be around when he gets home. The last thing he wants to do now is to explain to her why his night-long absence had nothing to do with a hot date.

Speaking of…

Frowning, Roman digs around in his coat pocket until his fingers close on his mobile. It’s not even ten thirty in the morning; not a good time to call someone you hardly know, someone you’ve only just met. Roman finds he doesn’t care. The impulse is strong, almost visceral, and he recognises dimly that it has little to do with what just happened, or even Magnus. It’s all about Roman himself, and at what point it becomes stupid, even dangerous, to hold on to unholdable things.

He takes a deep breath, thumbs through his contact list, presses the name.

On the fifth ring, there’s a click, then the voice, smoky and surprised. “Roman?”

“Hello, Magnus.”

“Hey!” He sounds genuinely pleased. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I was up early.”

“Right.” Roman walks on, phone pressed to his ear harder than necessary, heart suddenly thumping. “I’m… not sure what I called to say, actually.” He snorts, feeling idiotic.

“Are you okay?” Magnus sounds sincerely concerned, and Roman has to stop, vision suddenly swimming, to lean against a streetlamp, eyes closed. The cold metal feels good against his forehead, and he doesn’t care if passers-by wonder. He’s bound to look less weird leaning against a streetlamp than he would suddenly collapsing on the sidewalk, laughing, or crying, or both.

“Roman?”

“I… yes. I’m… my life is very strange,” he hears himself say, absurdly, one hand wrapped around the support of the lamp post. Magnus doesn’t laugh, or prompt for explanations, or say something trite, like “Join the club.”

He does sound amused. “Is that a warning?”

“Kind of. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s all very… look,” he says suddenly, feeling his eyelids squeeze tightly over his closed eyes, “if after this concentrated dose of weirdness, you’re even still… what are you doing tomorrow night?”

A long silence, then a low sound, soft and pleased. “Not a thing.”

  
***

  
Deniz watches him go, dark coat flapping a bit, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill bite of the morning air. There’s a moment when the urge takes him, almost impossibly strong, to run after him, to stop him, to say something, he doesn’t know what.

He stops himself, though. His ears are burning with cold, and his breath gusts in quickly dissolving clouds from his lips. He’s feeling tired and hollowed out, like not even the news he’s had is quite what it’s supposed to be if it isn’t enough to make Roman stay.

 _Stupid_ , he tells himself, and he forces himself to imagine the phone calls he won’t have to make now, the explanations he’s spared, the horrified looks he won’t have to face. The stacks of pill boxes and bottles he won’t have to keep. The doctor’s appointments that won’t become routine. The sight of his own face in the mirror each morning, checking anxiously for signs.

He breathes deeply, consciously spreading relief all over himself like a salve. Across the street, halfway down the next block, he sees Roman slump suddenly sideways, leaning against a lamp post. It’s too far to see for sure, but Deniz thinks he’s pulling something out of his pocket, holding it to his ear. His own hand slips automatically to the back pocket of his jeans and the small square shape of his own cell phone there. But it doesn’t vibrate, doesn’t ring.

He swallows hard, denying himself disappointment. _Stupid_ , he thinks again, and then, brightening despite his tiredness, _never mind, there’s time._

  
***

  
It takes Roman a full night and most of a morning to make up his sleep deficit, and even then he can still feel his body’s displeasure at having its accustomed rhythm interrupted so rudely. He must be getting old, Roman thinks as he makes his way along the boards of the Steinkamp ice rink, accompanied by the yelling of the players.

It’s been a while since Roman watched any hockey. It’s just not his thing, for starters. It reminds him, too uncomfortably, of the football his father insisted he play when he was younger: the taunting and shoving and the growing conviction that he was never going to be like everybody else.

Then there’s the skating; he can’t help but wince at the deep gouges the hockey skates leave, the craters smashed by a hockey stick’s impact. Watching the players crash into each other and hit the ice again and again, he can’t help but know that the ice is wounded and will be unusable before the Zamboni has given it a full work-over.

Even so, Roman is not incapable of appreciating a good strategy or the qualities that hockey demands: determination, fast reflexes, a certain ruthlessness and a physical courage that can’t be faked. It’s a straight-forward sport that does not make allowances for lies.

The irony that Deniz of all people seems so perfectly suited to it is not lost on Roman.

Roman never became an expert but he picked up a thing or two while he was with Deniz. He got into the habit of coming to his games and watching him practise when he could. It wasn’t entirely altruistic, Roman remembers with a faint smirk; after hockey, Deniz used to be extra-horny, especially after a good game, and it usually paid off to be there. Like that one time when the Steinkamp hockey team played a private school’s team in their own rink and Deniz’s final goal won the game. Roman remembers how, amid the cheering and shouting, Deniz dragged him out of the rink and into an abandoned classroom and simply pounced on him; remembers how utterly irresistible he was, grinning and breathless, high on victory, slippery with sweat and adamant that the best way to celebrate would be to bend Roman over the teacher’s desk and fuck him senseless. That desk probably still bears the gouges from his nails.

Not a good thing to be remembering right now, Roman tells himself sternly as he slowly circles the rink behind the boards, watching the Steinkamp team at practice. Once again, Ingo’s either late or not coming at all, swamped as he is with massages and aqua aerobics courses these days. Instead, Vanessa and Deniz are in charge, yelling instructions, encouragement, and frequent curses across the rink.

Two players are sitting on the step to the rink, observing the game. As Roman approaches, they both lift their heads in an eerily identical motion. Roman nods at them.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Superstar.” Nick is beaming at him. His sister, thankfully, is more wary. She gives Roman an unsmiling nod. “I thought you’ve had practice already?”

“Not today.” Roman leans sideways against the boards, facing the twins while still keeping an eye on the players on the ice. “Just came to talk to someone.”

“Yeah, uhm, I didn’t think you’d come to watch us play,” the boy says, laughing. Natascha frowns at him. “Hey. We’re getting pretty good.”

“You are,” Roman observes, following the swift progression of some snazzy hockey manoeuvre that sends the puck right into the goal. The team’s whoops echo around the rink as they converge around the scorer.

Deniz. Of course.

Roman deliberately turns away, focusing his attention on the twins. “How come you guys aren’t out there?”

“We’re being penalised. It’s a real shame,” says Nick, without trying very hard to fake remorse. Roman hides a smile. “What for?”

Natascha shrugs, tucking a brown curl behind her ear. “I hit Tom in the crotch with my stick.”

“Ouch,” Roman offers, amused despite himself by the girl’s obvious lack of remorse. She makes a dismissive noise. “It’s okay. He was wearing a jockstrap. Nick was worse.”

“Oh? What did you do?”

“Sucked,” Nick says succinctly, with the same tone of pronounced unconcern as his sister. “And not in a good way.” He waggles his copper brows at Roman until his twin elbows him in the ribs and he howls in protest. “Ow! What?”

The girl grimaces apologetically at Roman. “Sorry. There’s no cure for it. He was born this way.”

Roman is spared a response by the sound of the whistle ending the game. He stands back as the players file off the rink, nodding and smiling briefly at Vanessa and some of the other team members he knows; but there’s no keeping his distance from Deniz, who makes a beeline for Roman as soon as he spots him. He pulls his head free of his helmet and runs a hand through his flattened hair. The extra two inches of height lent by the skates and the additional bulk of the hockey gear make him look enormous, blocking the entire narrow walkway in front of Roman.

“Roman! Hi,” he says brightly, flushed and out of breath but smiling. There’s something so fresh and guileless about him, so genuinely happy to see him that it tugs at Roman’s careful defences.

It’s with a cold kind of despair that he realises how easy it would actually be to fall for this again, to let himself be drawn in by the magnetism of Deniz’s charm. The pull is so strong that if he believed in the supernatural, he might wonder if there were some glamour at work. What makes it worse it that there’s no calculation on Deniz’s part. That it’s just the way he is, drawing glances wherever he goes and all-too-generously bestowing himself on anyone who asks.

“Stop it,” Roman hears himself say, although he meant to say it differently. He had his sentences carefully laid out, rationally structured and intoned without hostility. Instead, having said it, he finds this will do just fine. When all’s said and done, this is the thing he needs to say.

Deniz is blinking at him, the smile slow to slip off his face. “What? Stop what?”

Roman flaps his hand in the narrow space between them. “This. Whatever it is you’re doing. Stop watching me skate. Stop acting like there’s still something between us.”

Deniz’s brow crinkles in alarm, and he takes a step towards him, hand raised. Roman swiftly steps back. Deniz halts in mid-motion, but his frown deepens.

“Roman… I’m not acting. There _is_ something.”

“No, there isn’t.” Roman sighs, looks out at the ice to avoid the hurt in Deniz’s eyes. “Look, what’s been happening lately… it doesn’t mean anything other than that maybe one of these days we’ll manage to start being friends. I’d like that. You’ve always been a great friend to people. It’s the relationship bits you can’t handle.”

Darting his eyes back to Deniz’s face because he can’t resist, he finds him still staring, brow furrowed. His expression isn’t as easily readable as Roman might have hoped. He clears his throat. “Deniz, I know what you’re doing. If you can’t have something, you suddenly decide you want it. Then as soon as you actually get your teeth into it, you drop it and lose interest. I’ve seen you do it before.”

Deniz lifts his brows at that, mouth curling in amusement or affront or a mixture of both. “Dude, I don’t even want to count how many ways you just insulted me, but never mind… I guess I deserved that. The thing is, you’re dead wrong. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Roman narrows his eyes at him. “I think I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Deniz takes another step towards him. This time, Roman stands his ground. With the added height of the skates, he has to tilt back his head uncomfortably to look Deniz in the face. Deniz’s gaze flickers, darting into the darkened stands to one side and the gleaming ice to the other before coming back to Roman’s face.

“Roman, look, I’m s-” He stops himself mid-word, squeezes his eyes shut briefly. Takes a deep breath. “I know you don’t believe me. You’ve got no reason to. But I need to tell you some stuff. I was going to do it tonight when we’re meeting for coffee but I can do it now if you-”

“I’m not meeting you tonight.” Roman says quickly. “Or any other time. That’s what I came to tell you.” He sees Deniz’s eyes widen in alarm, sees his face fall, and pushes on.  
“Deniz, we’re over. We have been for a long time. This thing lately… you know, I’ve given up on trying to suss out what it is you want, and honestly it doesn’t matter anymore, because _I_ don’t want it. And there’s no point in dragging it out over coffee.”

Deniz’s lips are parted slightly, the cold air forming damp clouds of condensation that disperse as he frantically shakes his head.

“That is so not what…” He halts mid-sentence, cocking his head sideways in sudden realisation. His mouth takes on a suspicious cast. “Hang on. Is it because of your date guy? The photographer?”

“No, it’s not,” Roman says curtly, glad for the chance to be genuinely irritated. “Or if it is, then in very small part. I’ve only seen him the once so far, so it’s way too early to tell anyway.” At the hint of relief in Deniz’s face, he can’t resist the urge to add, “But if – _if_ – there’s a chance of something real there, then yes, that deserves a shot, too. Unimpeded by previous baggage.”

Deniz has never been good at hiding emotions. His exuberance has always been writ across his features as large as his anger. Just like his hurt is now. He swallows. “So that’s what I am now? Previous baggage?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Roman says, reaching out instinctively to place a hand on Deniz’s arm. “I just meant…”

“Yeah, I think I get it.” Roman finds himself unprepared for the sudden warmth of Deniz’s hand over his, long fingers folding possessively over his knuckles. “Roman, you’ve got it all wrong. Please give me a chance to explain, at least.”

“Süßer,” Roman says gently, and sees how the endearment, rarely used even from him, hits home much more surely than any insult could, “it’s much too late for that.” He pulls back his hand, flexing his fingers in the suddenly chill air after the warmth of Deniz’s skin. It’s an oddly familiar feeling.

This time, when he walks away from Deniz’s stricken face, it’s the first time it actually feels real.


	11. Change on the Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem with Öztürks is they’re not half as stupid as they look.

The problem with Öztürks is they’re not half as stupid as they look.

Vanessa walks into No. 7 after what feels like a thirty-hour day in Oliver’s practice. Actually it was only nine hours but they felt interminable: Nine hours of distracting Oliver, going through paperwork, assisting with patients, asking questions she already knows the answer to. Nine hours of drinking one coffee after the other so he won’t be drinking them alone, until she feels like she’s got bees humming through her veins instead of blood.

Above all, nine hours of reassuring him at random intervals that she is better off holding the key to the medicine cabinet than he is. Nine hours of guarding the morphine and wishing it wasn’t there in the first place. Nine hours of reminding him that they’ve talked about this. That she won’t change her mind just because he’s yelling at her.

Nine hours of repeating that they’re doing this for Juli, doing this for Juli, doing this for Juli.

Juli who’s off at another business seminar, clueless and happy. Juli who’s been through so much; Juli who deserves for things to work out for her, for a change. Juli who’s worth protecting, worth fighting for, worth being kept in the dark about Oliver’s addiction, because… yes, why? Sometimes Vanessa can’t quite remember. Sometimes she just has to trust that for some reason this seemed like a sound plan when she first came up with it, before she was constantly tired and cross and near despair; that she needs to trust the judgement of that earlier self, because her current self has no judgement left, and certainly no energy.

It’s a week night, and quiet at the bar. Vanessa nods at Deniz when he waves at her from behind the counter, but doesn’t go for her usual seat at the end of the bar. She’s not here for conversation tonight. Mostly she just wants the reassurance of company without the demands of social interaction. So she takes up residence at a corner table instead, and when Camilla comes to take her order, she asks for water to drown the busy bees in her bloodstream.

To further discourage anyone from approaching her, Vanessa takes out the books she brought from Oliver’s practice: a thick tome on sports injuries, two boring volumes on medication administration, and one book on addiction and withdrawal management.

The former three are strictly for show – the longer she pretends to be a medical trainee, the more she is convinced that it’s not for her – and the latter she almost knows by heart by now. She flips it open to a random, dog-eared page, grabs a highlighter and pretends to study.

Almost immediately the letters blur before her eyes. Today was a bad day. Twice Oliver tried to insist on sending her away on a fabricated errand, eyeing the medicine cabinet with an all too familiar fevered intent in his gaze. Once he tried to be stern with her, all, _I’m your boss, give me back that key._ She’s off duty now and he’s at home where there is no tempting cabinet full of drugs, but Vanessa knows that there really is no “off duty” when you’re looking after a recovering addict. She has an inkling it’s going to be a bad night as well; one he won’t be able to face by himself.

“Here. You look like you could use this.”

Vanessa lifts her head from the meaningless hieroglyphs in her book. It’s Deniz, not Camilla, and the tray he’s set down on her table holds two steaming mugs in addition to the glass of water she ordered.

Vanessa shudders. “No more coffee. I’ve had about twelve of them today.”

Deniz shakes his head. “The coffee’s for me. This one’s for you.”

Vanessa sniffs at the hot mug he sets before her, with its crown of real whipped cream. When she catches the sweet, rich smell of cocoa, she reaches for the mug as eagerly as Oliver grabbed for the med cab key earlier.

Deniz grins as he watches her take her first sip, then nods at the empty bench beside her. “Mind if I join you?”

“Uhm.” Her first impulse is to refuse; she didn’t come here for a heart-to-heart, and Deniz knows her too well to let her fake empty chit-chat. “Aren’t you working?”

He snorts, waving at the mostly empty bar. “I think Camilla can handle the masses.”

Vanessa shrugs and relents. It’s only when he flops down next to her that she notices he’s brought books as well. It’s such an unfamiliar sight that she gapes at them for several moments before she regains her powers of speech.

“What on earth are those?”

Deniz looks embarrassed and almost defensive, as if she’s caught him at something indecent – typical, she thinks, Deniz Öztürk, who loudly bragged about working as a rentboy not half a year ago, would be warped enough to blush at being seen with a book.

Three books. And a notebook. With a pen, and good lord, are those highlighters? Yes, yes, they are.

Vanessa frowns. Deniz clears his throat.

“School stuff,” he says, faking nonchalance, and reaches for his coffee so he doesn’t have to look at her.

Vanessa blinks, more confused than ever. “Huh? But you dropped out.”

Deniz rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. He looks like he’s regretting his decision to sit with her.

“Yeah, well – remember the talent scout who came to see us play last week?”

“Uh huh.” She does remember, but vaguely; hockey is the last thing on her mind these days. The day the talent scout came was the day Juli left for her seminar, and Oliver promptly had a relapse – a bad one, as if the weeks when he’d seemed better, out of the woods, had just been a brave show put on for Juli’s benefit. Sometimes Vanessa despairs of ever getting him through this. All she remembers of the game that day was that she was distracted and played like shit, letting in puck after puck and not caring.

“Right. Well, he called me, later that night. Said he might be interested in me.”

Deniz is talking hurriedly, trying to sound like it’s no big deal, but Vanessa’s known him long enough to recognise the wistful set of his mouth, the undertone of longing. She leans back, cradling her cup of cocoa.

“Really? Deniz, that’s awesome! Did he give you any-”

“Only,” Deniz interrupts with a sigh, “he said he only takes on players who meet the minimum secondary education requirements. Which means I need a high school diploma for him to even consider me. Which means…” He indicates the stack of books in front of him with a jerk of his chin.

“Oh. Wow.” For a second Vanessa doesn’t know what to say. They’ve grown closer again since Ingo put them in joint charge of the hockey team, and generally she’s come round to the idea that maybe, just maybe, she’s actually got her best friend back, despite the odds. Still, after the total disaster that was last year, after she’s grown so used to the credo that all Deniz Öztürk does is lie, and cheat, and hurt the people he professes to love, sometimes she still has a hard time taking him seriously.

“Are you doing it all on your own?” she asks cautiously, because she senses that right now is not the time to mock him, tempted though she may be.

Deniz’ ears are still red. He shakes his head, not looking at her. “I’m taking evening classes, but most of it’s homework,” he mumbles. “I’m trying to get in enough hours at the bar so I can finally pay off Dad for my debts. It works out well, since I can study when there’s not much custom.”

“Huh. Wow,” Vanessa repeats, stupidly. For a long moment neither of them says anything. Then Vanessa drains her cup and sets it down purposefully.

“Right. Well, you know I’m preparing for finals too. If you want, we can study together sometime. I’m told I’m quite the bitch at algebra.”

She’s not looking at Deniz, but she can tell from his voice that he’s smiling.

“Okay. I’d like that.”

For a while they both sit in silence, bent over their books. Vanessa doesn’t bother turning the pages, but she notices Deniz does turn his, and even takes notes. Deniz Öztürk doing schoolwork. Voluntarily.

 _Stranger things have happened,_ Vanessa thinks, but in her tired, distracted state of mind, she honestly can’t think of any.

She checks her watch, and the date she’s forgotten – February 12th – and mentally goes over tomorrow’s schedule, and the rest of the week’s. Schedules are essential, she’s discovered. Schedules keep you grounded. She goes over Oliver’s appointments and hopes there’ll be walk-ins; he’s always more focused, more himself when he’s working. It’s Tuesday tomorrow, and Juli’s coming back Saturday afternoon. By then Vanessa will need to have Oliver shipshape again, or close enough to pretend. And it’s a school week, of course.

For the umpteenth time she wonders if she can do this by herself.

“How’s things at the clinic, Dr Steinkamp?”

Vanessa looks up, startled, to find Deniz’ eyes trained on her. There’s only the slightest hint of mockery in his voice, but it irritates her that he could read her so easily.

“Don’t call me that,” she says crossly. “You know I don’t give a toss about the internship.”

Deniz closes his book with an audible _thunk_ and leans back with far too much keen interest in his face.

“Fine, then, no pretences. How’s things with Oliver?”

His knowing grin annoys her enough that she snaps back, “They’re dandy. How’s things with Roman?”

A shadow blots out his smile and he looks away, shrugging.

“There isn’t any _things_.”

Almost she regrets her attack, at the sight of the too-studied disinterest in his face, but now that she’s started, she can’t very well backpedal.

“Ah. He still with Magneto, then?”

A sour smile steals quickly across Deniz’ features. “Magnus.”

“Whatever. What’s it been now, five weeks? Don’t tell me he’s actually managing to hold on to a guy who doesn’t treat him like shit.”

This time Deniz can’t quite cover his flinch. Vanessa grimaces and rubs her knuckles across her throbbing eyes.

“I’m sorry. That was mean. I’m being a bitch today. It’s been… a very long day,” she adds lamely.

Deniz shrugs. “No need to apologise when you’re right. Tell you the truth, I’ve no idea how he is. It’s been a while since he’s really talked to me.” He forces a smile. “He seems happy, though, so three cheers for Magneto.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Vanessa’s got plenty to say to that – _got some swamps in the Sahara to sell with that BS_ , for example – but he’s trying so obviously to be selfless that she can’t find it in her to call him on his crap. “Well, he’s training for the Europeans, anyway,” she says instead, “so I’m sure he doesn’t have that much time for his love life. When’s he off to Helsinki?”

Deniz shoots her a look that says he knows exactly what she’s doing, but he’s grateful for it anyway.

“Seven and a half weeks,” he replies, too promptly and too precisely. He should really learn how not to carry his heart in his face so damn obviously, Vanessa thinks. Someone’s bound to kick it right in, one of these days.

She’s suddenly tired. It’s a different tired from before, when it was merely physical and mental fatigue, an expected response to a long, strenuous day. This goes deeper, into her bones and her heart and the unnamed glue that holds together the very substance of her. It’s an exhaustion born not only of her own misery but of commiseration: for Roman, who never seems to have any lasting sort of luck; for Deniz, stupid, brash, dazzling Deniz who seems forever trapped in the idiot choices he makes, and even the right ones that he makes, only too late; for Oliver and Juli, storybook lovers, star-crossed and tragic, ever at odds with circumstance. Herself… she’s not even sure where she fits into all this mess, but then that’s hardly news. She’s never really belonged anywhere.

She checks her cell phone again, appalled to realise that two hours have passed since she left the Centre. Two hours that Oliver’s spent alone in his flat. Two hours in which he might’ve done any number of stupid things.

“I should go,” she says, with more reluctance than sits comfortably with her. It’s kind of pathetic, really, that this run-down bar is as close to a home as she’s got these days.

Deniz frowns. “What, home?”

“No.” Vanessa shudders involuntarily at the thought of the Steinkamp villa. She doesn’t have the energy to muster the fury she needs to face her mother, whose fault all this is – her mother who had Oliver abducted and is directly responsible for his addiction – and her father, who’ll smile blandly and pretend everything’s fine. No, anywhere’s better than home.

“No,” she repeats, more firmly, “but Oliver’s had a relapse. I should probably spend the night, make sure he doesn’t do anything dumb.”

Deniz’ frown deepens. “Nessa. Are you sure that’s a smart idea?”

Vanessa thinks ahead to the night she’s facing – a night of unrest, of Oliver tossing and turning and sweating, trying to sneak out of the flat and cursing at her when she won’t let him – and somehow manages not to shout or snarl.

“No, Deniz, I’m pretty sure it’s not. But I’m all he’s got. And it’s for Juli.”

It’s become something of a safe phrase, a magic formula, something to anchor her to the madness her life has become: _It’s for Juli._

It’s for Juli, who deserves – no, who _needs_ – her fairytale ending.

It’s for Juli, who despite her gentle exterior has a core of iron, a core that loves fiercely, unconditionally, wholly, and simply can’t be forced to have that thrown back in her face.

It’s for Juli, who smells of summer, whose smile is like the sun setting, not rising: a warm, radiant glow, granting absolution to all. Juli would forgive anyone anything, even if it broke her, which is exactly why she mustn’t be put in a position to do just that.

When Vanessa looks up, she finds Deniz staring at her with an expression half wonder, half shrewd realisation, and she knows she has only three seconds to get up and run.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she sits, frozen and not altogether terrified, perhaps even the tiniest bit relieved, as she watches him work through it, watches his mouth as it finally shapes the words she’s been dreading ever since she gave him her secret, or at least a part of it.

“Hang on,” he says slowly, wonderingly. “You’re not in love with Oliver. You’re in love with Juli.”

And she finds, to her own surprise, that hearing the truth isn’t the worst thing of all.


End file.
